


All the Broken Things

by CaptainHoney



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Bucky is a cad and a skeeze and I love him, Detective AU, Detective!Bucky, Everyone Has Trauma, Femme Fatale, Gun Violence, Hard boiled detective AU, Homme Fatale, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Noir AU, POV First Person, Past Steve/Peggy, Period Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thriller AU, Unhappy Ending, amputee!Bucky, fatales out the ears, implied period typical ableism, implied period typical anti semitism, incredibly lightly implied current cartinelli if you hold up a magnifying glass and squint into it, jewish!bucky, major character death: peter parker, mentions of drug use, mentions of medical experimentation, mentions of past abuse/torture, noir, noir thriller, some heavy petting in later chapters, steve and bucky are happily together at the end it's everything else that's terible, taking on the most painful parts of canon and twisting them in my horrid little hands, the tags and character list are full of spoilers, this is me writing a bucky story obvs there will be suffering, this whole fic is just my love letter to raymond chandler, very present but not super plot-central steve/bucky, very slightly implied period typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/pseuds/CaptainHoney
Summary: "It’s been a couple of weeks since the end of my real last case – the same old story of a man who wasn’t at home as often as his wife would like. It got a bit nasty towards the end, more so than I expected. Things have been pretty quiet since then. My receiver’s getting dusty.I must have dozed off a little because when the knock comes at the door I just about fall out of my chair."Bucky Barnes is a private detective with a cloudy future and a past he'd rather forget. He's just trying to get by well enough to keep the lights on when a mother comes to him with a missing persons case: her twins have vanished. Bucky thinks he's going to be making easy money chasing a couple of brats around New York, but it isn't long before the bodies start piling up and his past comes yapping at his heels. 1940s noir detective thriller au.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. The Case

It’s late afternoon and hot as an invalid’s armpit and I’m in the office, watching the ceiling fan move through the dead air and trying to fish whiskey out of my ice cubes. My telephone is doing a perfect impression of an inanimate object and my secretary took the week off to visit family in Hoboken. That was almost a month ago. 

There are a few at the NYPD who might call me a friend if I bought them a drink first, and sometimes one of them will send something my way. So will a couple of the guys I served with. But summers like this, it gets too hot for some people to even think about adultery, and I try not to get involved in murder. Especially not in this weather. The heat does things to people, makes them mean. Much better to play a game of solitaire and keep my nose clean. 

It’s been a couple of weeks since the end of my real last case – the same old story of a man who wasn’t at home as often as his wife would like. It got a bit nasty towards the end, more so than I expected. Things have been pretty quiet since then. My receiver’s getting dusty.

I must have dozed off a little because when the knock comes at the door I just about fall out of my chair.

‘Come in,’ I call, straightening my tie.

The door opens just far enough for a woman to squeeze in, like she’s afraid to take up too much space. She looks like my aunt which is to say probably Jewish, about forty, fashionable hat and a short coat that looks nicer than it is. She’s proper-looking, the kind of nice lady everyone tells you is a nice lady. I stand up and pull a chair out for her, offer her a drink. She shakes her head.

‘Please, Mr Barnes,’ she says in a thick Central European accent, ‘I would prefer if we could just cut to the chase.’

‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’ I pull a notepad and a pen out from under the refuse on my desk. ‘Now, how can I help, Mrs…?’

‘Maximoff. Natalya Maximoff. I am here about my children.’ She pulls a photograph out of her purse and hands it to me: two youths of around seventeen, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing in front of a dressmaker’s shop. There’s a dark-haired girl with a far-off expression, and a blonde boy with a smile that looks like trouble. I think I’m getting a bit of an idea already but hey, it’s just a photograph. ‘That’s Wanda, and that’s my boy Pietro.’ 

‘What did they do, run off with the family jewels?’ Hardly anything I haven’t heard before. ‘Don’t want to call the law on your own kids?’

‘My children would never,’ she huffs. ‘No, Mr Barnes, they have  _ gone missing _ . They have been gone for weeks, and the police do nothing. They tell me, “they are young people, this happens all the time. Probably they are with friends somewhere.” But I know my children.’

I don’t want to sound like a cop, so I mangle my face into what I think I remember concern looks like. ‘How many weeks exactly?’

‘Three. They leave in the middle of the night, with a note saying they have an opportunity and they will be back in two days.’ She takes a piece of paper out of her purse and hands it to me. ‘I have not seen them since.’ 

The note is written in flowery handwriting, like a teenage girl’s. 

_ Mama, _

_ Peter and I have been offered a wonderful opportunity. Please do not worry about us, we will be back after the weekend.  _

_ Love, _

_ Wanda _

I bite my thumbnail. ‘Nothing else? No other indication of where they were going?’

She shakes her head. 

‘You know anything about this opportunity?’ Another shake of the head. ‘Your girl, Wanda, she got aspirations? Wants to be in the pictures, something like that? Girls her age run off to Hollywood all the time. Maybe her brother goes with her to watch her back.’ 

I’m making a bit of a leap, but my sister Rebecca tried to pull something similar when we were younger. Neither of us ever let the other forget it. 

‘If that is what she wanted I would have given her the fare. She knows this.’

‘Let’s forget about this opportunity for a minute. Either of them got a sweetheart?’ 

‘Not that I know of. Wanda was seeing a boy from our neighbourhood, but not anymore. He has not seen her either.’ 

‘You sure about that?’

She looks at me shrewdly. ‘I am not easily lied to, Mr Barnes.’

‘Alright, Mrs Maximoff, then can you think of any other trouble they might have been in?’ I try to look sympathetic. ‘Even good kids can get mixed up in things they shouldn’t, so if there’s anything you can think of that might help…’

‘No. I can promise you they would never. They come home late sometimes when they are with their friends, but they always come home,’ she says firmly and pulls out a cheque book. ‘I want you to find my children, Mr Barnes. They are all the family I have left.’

I tap my fingernail against the desk. I’m still trying to look sympathetic but I’m sure as hell not feeling it. I want to cuff the brats on the ear for leaving their mother to worry. That thing you might call a gut feeling is telling me to decline but the other stupid thing that controls my face is saying, ‘I charge thirty-five dollars a day, plus expenses.’ 

‘This seems acceptable. Of course, I do not know how to place a value on such things. Is that wrong to say? Is this a negotiation?’ She gives me a hard look.

‘I charge the same amount for everyone, Mrs Maximoff.’ 

She nods and writes me a cheque for four days’ worth of work. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘You haven’t given me a whole lot to go on.’ I eyeball the cheque, trying not to salivate. 

‘You cannot do it?’ She looks disappointed. You’d think I’d be used to that look from women by now, but I still don’t like it. ‘I had heard you were a man who gets results despite your… limitations.’

‘Depends if you want them found fast or slow,’ I say, playing tough on account of what I suspect was a crack about my missing arm. It doesn’t suit me too well but she drops her eyes and all the same. ‘I can’t do miracles.’

‘Of course. There is… one other thing.’ She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I hear maybe they are speaking to someone, a man.’

‘What about?’ 

‘I don’t know. They do not tell me about it.’

I try not to grind my teeth. ‘Do you know where?’ 

‘A diner near their school. I pick them up there. Peter, he wants to work, but I tell them they must learn first. How else will they know anything?’ She reaches across for the blotter, writing down the name of the diner and a phone number. ‘They have friends there, maybe they will know. They tell me they know nothing, but I am just a mother. That is a number for the shop where I work. You find them, you will call me right away.’

‘Of course.’ I know I’m taking the case even before I tear off the page and tuck it unto my breast pocket along with her cheque. ‘You head home now, try not to worry.’

She laughs hollowly. ‘When you have seen what I have, Mr Barnes, you always worry. Good day.’

***

I go to the bank first and deposit the cheque, because I like the sound of a cheque being deposited. Then I get in my car and drive up to Williamsburg. The car is a brown Plymouth sedan so dinged up and worthless it would have been considered unpatriotic to donate it to the war effort. It was already a junker when my father bought it and my sisters didn’t do me any favours giving it to me when the bastard died. But hey, call me sentimental. 

The diner is easy enough to find. Teen-agers lean on the wall outside and the warbling of Sophie Tucker drifts through the doorway. 

I order a milkshake from a pretty bottle blonde waitress who’s giving me the stink eye. I think maybe I’ve left shaving cream on my face until I realise she’s actually batting her eyelashes. I don’t inspire many eyelashes to bat these days. I hope to Hell I can remember how to be charming, or something like it.

‘You work here every day?’ I ask.

‘Most days. I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.’ Her fingers toy absently with a napkin. ‘Say, are you a movie star or something?’

‘I’m looking for someone. Maybe they’re friends of yours.’ I show her the photograph and she pulls a face.

‘Those two? They don’t really…  _ have _ friends.’ 

‘Yeah? And why’s that?’ 

‘They’re…  _ unusual _ .’ She enunciates the word like she’s reading for a part in a bad movie. ‘They keep to themselves. Never seem totally focused. Always kinda tense. He’s not so bad, but she…’ 

‘She what?’ 

‘I think she puts curses on people. Like the evil eye. That’s what my grandma says. So I wouldn’t bother with them if I were you.’ She pats her hair. ‘There are far more interesting people around these parts.’

I plaster on a big leer. ‘If she’s anywhere near as enchanting as you, she must be a real witch.’

She giggles, to my shock and horror. I can’t remember the last time I was giggled at and I haven’t a clue what to do about it. ‘Oh, stop! Besides, I think they already went away somewhere. Their mother keeps hanging around here asking about them.’

‘Yeah? Went away with who?’ 

‘Some man came in here a few weeks ago looking for them. They both looked upset after, took off in a big rush. Haven’t seen ‘em since.’ She sniffs. ‘I have no idea why. What do you want with those two anyway?’

‘I’m a movie producer, there’s a bigshot director after the two of them.’ 

‘You’re making a movie here? In New York?’

‘That’s right.’ I give her another leer. ‘Say, that man, he been in again since?’

‘Maybe once or twice. Say, you  _ really _ in the pictures?’

‘Reckon you can remember anything else? Name? A description?’

‘I never caught his name, but I think he was German. Some of the boys wanted to give him a hard time, but he got real scary-looking when they got close. He wears a black suit, smokes a lot.’ She gives me a look, full of desperate hunger. ‘You know, I’m an actress.’

‘You don’t say? Did this man speak to anyone else who might remember anything?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not any more than me, anyhow.’ She pats her hair again. ‘ You think maybe I could be in your movie?’

‘Well, sure, I don’t see why not.’ I fish a card out of my wallet, one of the ones that just has my name and number on it, and hand it to her. ‘You see if you can remember anything else, and if anything opens up I’ll come in and order another milkshake.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’ She smiles earnestly and walks away. I watch her walk, more to be polite than anything else. 

***

I go back out to my car and sit in it with the windows rolled down and a cigarette in my mouth. Nice-looking girls walk past with their mothers, the sort I could take back to mine. Other girls walk past, ones with blouses a little too tight and lips a little too red, trailing boys too young to have served who wear their hats on jaunty angles over too-long hair. The mothers of nice-looking girls glare at them and whisper to each other. They glare at me too and I glare back. None of them look like the Maximoff girl. No scary-looking guy in a black suit comes past even after I’ve been sitting and sweating for over two hours. The diner closes. I go to a payphone and get Natalya Maximoff’s address from the operator, then drive around and park outside of her apartment block. 

The block is a little run-down but nice-looking, the sort that probably has a building manager who greets you by name and naps with the game on. Not too many people come or go. It’s hot and it’s quiet and if you could be inside with a cool drink you wouldn’t be here.

A young man comes out and sits on the stoop. He’s good-looking, about twenty, with sandy hair and nice white teeth. His nose looks like it’s been broken, but in the sort of way that adds character. I watch him roll a cigarette. He watches me watch him. Finally he pushes off the stoop and leans in through my window, blowing smoke into the car. 

‘I’m not interested in any funny business, y’hear me?’ 

‘I’m looking for the Maximoff kids.’ I show him the picture. ‘You know ‘em?’

‘Who wants to know?’ 

‘I’m a detective. Their mother hired me.’ I give him my card.

‘I was wondering when she would get to doing that.’ He taps the card against his thumbnail. ‘Mind if I get in?’

‘Sure.’ I lean across and open the passenger side door and he slides in.

‘They live across the hall. It’s just the three of them. I don’t know what happened to their old man, I just kinda assumed he was killed during the war. Wanda never said.’ He sighs through his nose.

‘You and Wanda were close?’

‘Yeah. We were going steady for maybe six months, until a couple of months back when she starts acting funny and calls things off real sudden.’ 

‘Funny how?’

‘Like she was never around. We’d make plans and she’d never show. Stuff like that. Unreliable.’ He fidgets with his cigarette, blows smoke out the window. ‘I wasn’t too cut up about it or anything. She wasn’t the sort of girl a guy settles down with. But Peter and her were my friends.’

‘Awful lotta past tense there, pal.’ His hands jerk up in surprise then settle again in his lap.

‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘You were going steady with a girl who by your own account is unreliable. She breaks your heart then disappears, and you talk about her like she’s gone for good.’ I give him one of my stern looks and he swallows. ‘Sounds like you’re already in trouble.’

‘It ain’t like that. She didn’t hardly break my heart, for starters. Look, she, uh-‘ he says, wiping a bead of sweat out of his eyebrow, ‘she told me she met someone, a guy who was going to help her and Peter out. She didn’t say much, just that it had something to do with money. I don’t know if that was the truth but she told me not to ask questions, so I didn’t.’

‘Why would it have anything to do with money?’

‘Peter liked to gamble, and he like to cheat. He was good at it, the best, but-’

‘He got caught anyway.’ I swear softly. ‘So, what, this guy promises to take care of the debt for one little favour, and our pal Pietro doesn’t get his legs broken?’

‘Something like that. Like I said, Wanda wasn’t exactly talkative.’ He makes another attempt at wiping the sweat off his face and taps some ash out the window. ‘I went with Peter a couple of times, mostly just to watch him. He favoured this one place, a dive called the Gin Hole.’

‘I know it.’ I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. ‘That everything?’

‘Yes.’ He looks at me and reconsiders. ‘No, I- I walked her and Peter down to the graving dock in Red Hook. The night they left. Peter wanted another pair of fists, just in case.’

‘He didn’t trust the man they were meeting?’ 

‘Would you? I guess he was expecting there might be trouble.’ He sighs again, staring at the smoking butt in his hand. ‘But a big car pulled up and they got in it. Wanda told me it was all going to be fine, that they’d be back in a couple of days.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ 

‘I didn’t want to make trouble. Plus, like you said, my story don’t sound too good.’

‘Your story stinks, kid.’ I lean over him and open the door again. ‘Anything happens, you got my card.’

***

The Gin Hole is about as classy a place as you’d expect from somewhere with ‘hole’ in the name. Rumour is it started as an opium den and went downhill from there. A few years back the place was called the Drunk Hole, until an ‘under new management’ sign got stuck in the window and a little bit of effort was made to get rid of the smell, but it’s still a dive. The only difference is it’s now a dive with illegal gambling going on in the back room.

I park across the street and start smoking. The ‘under new management’ sign is still in the window, barely visible through the dirt. No one moves inside. After about a half an hour a man comes by and unlocks the door. He’s slim, not much older than me, a day or so’s worth of stubble on his jaw. I wait a while longer until the lights flick on inside, then I get out of my car. There’s a little pyramid of ash on the pavement under my window. 

I head to the alley out back, test the door. It’s locked tight. The bins don’t yield anything interesting. I head out front again. The door’s propped open and I see a couple of barflies traipsing in. I loosen my tie, scruff my hair up and sag a little, like I’m carrying a big, big weight. Then I shuffle on in after the barflies.

The place could generously be described as dingy. A few grubby lamps sit on a few rickety tables. There’s an old mural on one wall, peeling flapper dames dancing across patches of mould. Behind the bar is a grimy mirror with gold edges. In its reflection everything looks soft, almost romantic. I sit at the bar and wish I was sitting in the mirror. 

‘What’ll it be?’ the bartender asks. 

I shrug, look morose, slide some coins across the bar. He slides back two fingers of rye in a dusty glass. I down it, try to look grateful instead of shuddering. The bourbon scrapes down my throat like it doesn’t want to be there.

‘Another.’ 

I look up this time when he passes it to me. He’s handsome, Italian maybe, older than I thought. I pick up the glass slowly, take a sip, don’t take my eyes off of his. 

‘Have I seen you here before?’ he asks.

‘I’ve been here before, but you might not have seen me,’ I tell him. 

‘Yeah, I think I’d’ve remembered.’ He breaks away, pours someone else a drink, wipes a couple of glasses.

I take the time to look around the room. There’s a door next to the bar which must lead to the cardtables, but no one’s been through it yet. No one here looks set on doing much more than forgetting everywhere they’ve ever been. 

The bartender comes back over. ‘You looking for something?’

‘That depends on if this is the place to find it,’ I slide the empty glass back over, ‘and whether or not you’re willing to give it to me.’

‘Whatever you’re playing at, this ain’t the place for it.’

‘You’re not a very trusting kinda guy, are you?’

‘And you’re not a very smart one,’ he sneers.

‘Well I’m awful sorry but I don’t think you and me are gonna be friends, on account of you hurt my feelings just now.’

‘I’m about to hurt your damn face.’

‘Alright, I apologise.’ I break out my acting skills again and try looking sincere. ‘Now that we’re friends again, you gonna do something about my empty glass?’

He fills it and leans across the bar, pushing the drink towards me with his fingertip. I can see the bulge of a gun in his waistband. He leans across the bar until I can feel his breath on my cheek.

‘If you’re here to cause trouble you’d best walk on out,’ he says, just loud enough for me to make out. ‘If you try and start a fight you’ll be on the floor and out the door before you know what’s hit you. So let me ask you again, you looking for something?’ 

‘My niece and nephew.’ I take out the picture of the Maximoffs. ‘Not looking for any trouble, just family.’

The barman looks at the photo and recoils slightly. He swallows, throat bobbing. ‘The kid’s got family looking for him?’

‘Evidently. Reckon you can help me out? His ma’s worried sick.’ 

‘He used to come in here now and then. I kicked him out for good a couple of months back for, ah, starting fights. Haven’t seen him since.’ He looks nervous for another moment, but he gets over it. ‘No offence to you and yours, but those two probably got themselves into some trouble they couldn’t handle and skipped town to lay low for a while. They seemed the sort.’

‘Starting fights, huh? That it?’ I drum my fingers on the bar. ‘Can you remember how long ago, exactly?’

‘Can’t say that I can. They’re not the only kids who’ve come in here a few times then disappeared.’

‘That so?’ I say. 

‘Young people, what can you do?’ He jerks his head towards the door. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

‘That’s a shame. Say, you know where a fella can get a game of cards around here?’ I’m pushing my luck, playing things stupid. 

He puts his hand on the gun at his waist and I put my hand up and walk slowly on out of there. No one else seems to have paid us a single scrap of attention. Funny old world when a man can get threatened like that and no one gives a damn. I get in my car and watch the door for another half hour or so then drive off.

***

The sun’s getting real low, turning the sky the colour of rancid butter. I drive up to the graving dock to skulk. The hulking silhouettes of cargo ships crowd out the horizon, but most of the dockworkers have gone home for the night. I get up and stretch my legs around the edge of the fence.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ a weedy man in a long, black jacket asks me.

‘Stretching my legs,’ I reply. 

‘Well you oughta scram,’ he says. 

‘Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’ I leer.

‘Pal, I couldn’t be any less happy to see you. Now scram.’

‘I’m looking for some teen-agers. They were seen here a few weeks ago, a girl and a boy.’ 

‘You a cop?’ he squints at me.

‘Would that make you more, or less inclined to help me?’

‘I ain’t seen no kids. Get outta here before I jump over that fence and sock you one.’ 

‘You nautical boys sure are a friendly bunch.’ I wave the photograph at him. ‘Their mother’s worried sick. You got a mother, pal?’

He fires a warning shot at my feet and I scarper. The world’s sick and dying from motherless sons. 

***

There’s nothing else to do at this hour so I drive back to the office and have a drink. Then the sun finishes going down so I drive home and have a drink there as well. Everything about this case stinks, but I’ve got a whole lot of something looking like a bucket full of nothing, so I go to bed early to have a think and sweat into the sheets. I sleep fitfully for a little while and wake from a bad dream soaked in so much sweat I’m almost a puddle. It’s the wrong side of midnight. The inside of my head feels like it’s been scraped out and replaced with sandpaper and cotton wool. 

I splash my face with cold water from the bathroom sink and try not to look at myself in the mirror. The man I see there isn’t me; he’s some hollow-cheeked stranger with eyes that have seen too much. Sometimes when we spot each other I start screaming.

It’s dark outside, but not quiet. Music and conversation barge their way out of open windows. Too hot for civilised folks to sleep. I get dressed and make a pot of coffee and drink it standing at the kitchen counter. Then I get in my car and drive back to the graving dock. 

I park a little out of the way and skulk through the shadows until I have a view of things. I know how to move silently. It’s not a skill I like to use, but I’ve spent enough time drawing attention to myself. 

The dock seems deserted, but there’s a man with a submachine gun patrolling the fence. I can see the orange glow of a cigarette a little further along, just outside the circle of light from the streetlamp. I point my finger at it, cock my thumb, and whisper  _ pow _ . 

I hear the rumble of tyres and press myself into the shadows. A big, dark car pulls up, purring money, and a squat man in a black overcoat steps out. He wears a hat pulled down low and a scarf over the lower half of his face. The cigarette moves into the light and turns out to have a man attached. He hands the man in the black suit a case. I move closer just in time to hear the man with the gun complaining about the no good detective who was snooping around earlier. 

‘What did you tell him?’ asks Black Coat. His accented voice is muffled by the scarf. 

‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ says Gun. ‘I told him to scram.’

‘Do you think he’ll be back?’ asks Cigarette.

‘Nah, I reckon I scared him off good.’ 

‘How did you “scare him off”?’ asks Black Coat.

‘I danced with him,’ says Gun with a high laugh. He imitates shooting the ground and does a jerking little jump backwards, then laughs again. 

‘How tiresome.’ Black Coat cocks his head to the side. 

Apparently that’s some kind of signal, because Cigarette pulls a neat little revolver out of his coat pocket and shoots Gun between the eyes. He blows on the end of it and tucks in back into his coat.

‘Such a waste.’ Black Coat steps gingerly out of the way of the spreading puddle of blood. ‘If that detective comes back, I expect him dealt with. Discreetly.’ 

‘Yes, boss.’ 

‘No loose ends.’

‘No, boss.’

Black Coat gets back into the car with the case and it drives away. Cigarette stares at Gun’s body for a while, smoke spiralling up into the hot air. Then he strolls away, glowing butt receding into the darkness.

Aw, Hell.

I wait until he’s been gone a good long while, then investigate the fence. I can’t see any kind of easy way in, so I back up and come at the fence at a run. I hit it high enough that I can pull myself up one-handed, making it over the top and landing in a heap on the other side. It’s an awful lot of noise but I wait a few minutes and don’t hear anyone coming. I clamber to my feet and go over to the body, kicking away the submachine gun. His suit is a little old-fashioned but well-made. There’s a couple of folded bills and some gum in his breast pocket and a flick-knife in his trousers, but otherwise I’m coming up empty. 

I’m too busy rifling through his pockets to hear the sound of footsteps behind me, but I sure as Hell feel the fist when it connects with the back of my skull. Pain explodes behind my eyes and I fall forward, catching myself in the puddle of Gun’s blood. A hand grabs my collar and yanks me back and another one socks me in the left eye. 

‘You’re the shamus, ain’t ya?’ Cigarette leans right up in my face. His teeth are yellower than the streetlamp. ‘Bet you don’t think you’re so smart now.’

He pulls his fist back to punch me again and I jab him in the wrist. He yells and lets go of my shirt and I scramble to my feet. He takes a swing and I duck, driving my shoulder into his stomach and toppling him. We collapse in a pile and he’s swinging at me, trying to kick me off, but he’s only a small fella and I get him pinned with my knees on his upper arms. I can see him seriously consider trying to head-butt me in the groin, and he sees me seeing him and thinks better of it. He’s not that dirty.

‘I ain’t gonna talk.’ 

‘I don’t need you to talk, much. I just want to know where the bodies are.’

‘What bodies?’ He swallows nervously.

‘The kids. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.’ I experiment with gripping his throat a little. ‘Did he throw them in the river? Take them upstate and bury them?’

‘Boy, you’re not a very good detective, are you?’ He laughs, a hoarse, unpleasant sound. ‘Those kids ain’t dead, he’s got them in a hotel in-‘

He stops, eyes going wide. 

‘A hotel in where?’

‘I ain’t telling you shit.’ He makes a show of mashing his lips shut.

‘You kiss your mother with that mouth?’ I consider pushing at him, but I haven’t got a taste for it. ‘Say goodnight, now.’

‘Huh?’

I punch him in the face and he goes limp. I search his pockets, but he has nothing more interesting on him than the stiff did. Neither of them have wallets. I head back the way he came, almost falling over the wheelbarrow that must be meant for Gun. Turns out there’s a gate in the fence after all and I leave by it. I find a payphone and think very hard about calling in the body, then decide better of it. I drive home again while I can still manage it.

I find a steak in the freezer and put it over my eye without waiting for it to thaw. I drink a bourbon and take some aspirin and pretend like I can go to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first draft of this story about four-odd years ago and have talked about it a lot but never got around to editing it to a level I was happy with, but over the past couple of weeks I've decided to revisit the story and finally get it into shape. I could keep editing forever but I just want it done and out into the world. Sorry to anyone who's been waiting and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> If there are any triggers you want to know about or tags you would like clarified please just ask.


	2. The Dame

I wake from a bad dream where I’m drowning in bloated corpses to a dull throbbing in most of my body and a sharp one in my head. The steak has slipped down onto my neck. It’s now room temperature and smells rancid. I get up and throw it in the garbage and drown some more aspirin with half a pot of coffee. Judging by the light in my apartment it’s almost noon already. 

I get dressed and walk the few blocks to my office. Mrs Maximoff is sitting in the waiting area in the hallway when I get there. She takes one look at my face and turns the colour of tissue paper.

‘Did you get that looking for my children?’ 

‘Hmph.’ I unlock the door and motion for her to enter.

‘So you have news?’ 

‘I do, but not as much as I’d like.’ I perch on the edge of my desk, drumming my fingers on the cracking timber. I wonder if she knows about Pietro’s gambling, or Wanda’s spooky reputation. 

‘Tell me.’

‘I know they’re alive. I know they’re in a hotel somewhere, and I’m pretty sure it’s in New York.’ I hope she appreciated the sympathetic look I give her, because it hurts to make it. ‘I’m sorry it’s not more.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mr Barnes.’ She shakes her head. ‘You’ve gotten more in a day than I’ve had in weeks. I have faith in you.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Maximoff, because I think you can take it.’ She straightens her back and her face sharpens. ‘I don’t know what kind of state they’re in, or how they’ve been treated. There was a little while there where I was pretty sure they were dead, and I had to get punched in the face to learn otherwise. Your kids  _ are _ mixed up in something, and it’s not good.’

Her face crumples for a moment, then she recovers and nods slowly. ‘We’re survivors, Mr Barnes. Those children have seen terrible things and they’re still with us. I believe you will bring them back to me.’

‘I’ll try and have your faith, Mrs Maximoff.’ 

After she leaves I pull out the phone book and drum my fingers against  _ A  _ for _ accommodation _ . New York has a lot of hotels. A car like the one I saw last night couldn’t park in too many boroughs without drawing attention, though. The sorts of neighbourhoods where a car like that can be inconspicuous are the sorts of neighbourhoods where the hotels will hang up on a dick with a Brooklyn accent calling up to ask about two missing teen-agers. Hell, some of them would probably hang up at the Brooklyn accent alone. 

I go down to the butcher and buy another steak. The cashier points at my eye and laughs and tells me it’s a little late for that, so I got home and eat the steak and rest a glass of ice water on my face instead. Then I stroll down to the police station and ask to see Inspector Dugan.

Dugan and I served together. We get around, a sad little network of broken men. He doesn’t bat an eye when I get myself involved in things I shouldn’t. That’s nice to have, in my line of work: a cop who knows you’re an asshole, but thinks you’re the right kind.

‘What can I do you for, Bucky? How’d you get the shiner?’ 

‘Someone got shot at the graving dock in Red Hook last night. I was wondering if you knew anything.’

‘What do you know about that?’ He frowns at me, chewing on the ends of his moustache. 

‘I know someone got shot. Why, what do  _ you _ know about it?’

‘I can’t talk about cases with civilians, you know that.’ He scowls. ‘You should get out of here before I decide you should be brought in for questioning.’

‘What’s the deal, Dum-Dum?’ I put my hand on my hip. ‘I’m looking for a couple of missing kids. The Maximoffs. You’re not gonna help me find some missing kids?’

‘Sorry, sarge. Rules are rules.’ 

‘You’re by the book now? What’s spooked you?’ 

This isn’t the first time he hasn’t given me information when I’ve asked for it, but it is the first time it’s seemed like he hasn’t wanted to. Dugan’s as likely as not to take a swing if pressed too hard, but it’s not like him to just clam up.

‘Let’s just say we gave this one a poke and it poked us right back.’

‘Well that tells me a fat lot of nothing, except someone’s putting the squeeze on you.’ 

‘You don’t want to interfere with this one, Bucky. Take that as advice from an old friend.’ He looks at me steadily for a few moments then sighs. ‘Aw, to hell with it. You want to joke about me being by the book, that’s fine. Truth is, compared to some… Well, I ain’t gonna say any, just that when certain people tell you to keep your nose out, it’s best you listen.’

‘Alright, Dugan. I get the message.’

‘Do you?’ He chews on the end of his moustache again. ‘Take care of yourself, sarge. I don’t like you walking in here with a black eye. Makes me worry.’

‘Ain’t that sweet.’ I give a snappy goodbye salute. ‘Be seeing you.’ 

***

I walk back to the office and smoke some Marlboros under the ceiling fan. I buy a soggy egg and cress sandwich from the automat across the street and pick at it while I call a couple of hotels, but no one wants to remember a couple of kids with a man in a black suit.

I’m thinking about getting another sandwich just for the sake of looking busy when a silhouette appears in the frosted glass of the door. 

It’s a nice silhouette, sort of female-shaped, and I like the idea of seeing the rest of it. The door opens, and I’m not disappointed. She’s a neat little redhead in a deep green dress and a long grey coat. I stand up and pull a chair out for her and she sits like she’s got all the time in the world.

‘You don’t have a secretary,’ she says. Her voice is deep, smoky. 

‘Sure I do. She’s in Hoboken.’ 

She arches an eyebrow at me and reaches into her purse. I flinch and the eyebrow arches higher, but she’s just pulling out an envelope. 

‘You seem nervous,’ she purrs. 

‘Do I? I feel nervous.’ She slides the envelope across the desk and I stare at it. ‘Should I be nervous?’

‘It’s just a case, Mr Barnes. You’ve worked cases before, haven’t you?’

‘Sure. I’m working one right now.’ 

‘And now you’re working this one.’

‘Am I?’ I open the envelope. Inside is a cheque with a number on it that looks almost as nice as she does. ‘I guess I am.’

‘I just knew you’d say yes,’ she says with a smirk.

‘Well, hey, now, this is real generous and all,’ I say, foolishly, ‘but before we make this official I’m going to need some details.’ 

‘Of course.’ She hands me a card on thick, white stock with embossed gold lettering. I could get used to having her hand me things. ‘My employer owns a number of clubs which cater to a very exclusive clientele. Recently, some… undesirable elements have been appearing at his venues and causing some upset.’

‘So, what, your boss can’t afford private security?’ I tap the card on the table. ‘That’s not the kind of thing I go in for.’

‘Don’t be boorish.’ She gives me a withering look and I wither accordingly. ‘My employer suspects there may be something larger going on. He wants you to come to the address on the card tonight in case any of these people show up, and talk to them.’

‘Yeah? What kind of talking?’ 

‘Just talking, Mr Barnes. No threats. He wants to know who they’re working for, that’s all.’ She snaps her purse shut. ‘Be there at eight o’clock, please.’

‘That’s if I’m taking the case.’ 

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I suppose you’ll find out at eight o’clock.’

‘I suppose so.’

I pretend to be a gentleman and get the door for her. She’s gone before I realise I never caught her name.

I go back to my desk and sit down with the envelope and the card in front of me. Something about her has left me feeling a little shell shocked. Not to mention nothing for weeks and now here I am, up to my ears in it. I pour myself a drink and pick up the phone.

One of my war buddies has a nephew who works at the paper. The kid was too young to serve but he did some good work as a junior reporter while everyone else was off fighting. He looks up to anyone who served and he’ll bend over backwards to help a guy out. I might’ve called him earlier, but I feel a little sore about using him, or at least I ought to. Still, he’s got contacts I don’t. Besides, I figure I’m doing the kid a favour. 

The switchboard takes an interminably long time to put me through, but finally I hear, ‘Peter Parker, Daily Bugle. How may I be of service?’ 

‘Kid, come on, you sound like you’re your own damned secretary.’ 

‘Bucky?’ His voice gets a little higher with excitement. He’s like a puppy.

‘Yeah, it’s me. I need a favour.’ I pull the note out of my pocket. ‘I need you to look up a couple of things for me.’

‘Sure thing, Bucky. Anything you need.’ I can hear him scrabbling for pen and paper. 

‘I need a list of all the kids who’ve gone missing in and around Brooklyn in the past, say, two months. I’m also looking for two teenagers, a blond boy and a dark-haired girl, who might have been seen with a man in a black suit. The man drives a real nice black convertible. Luxury model, looks custom. They’re staying in a hotel somewhere, I think probably Manhattan.’ I stare at the other words on the paper for a few moments, then tuck it back into my pocket. ‘You get all that?’

‘I think so.’ He reads them back to me. ‘That’s a lot Bucky, and not that easy.’

‘I know, kid. Just do your best.’

‘Anything else? You need these by a certain time, or…?’

‘As soon as you can, but don’t go dropping everything else on my account.’ I think about the last time I got on the wrong side of Ben Parker and add, ‘and don’t go getting yourself in trouble, neither. You feel like you’re tugging at something that might be a lion’s tail, you just let it lie, you hear me?’

‘Sure thing, Bucky.’ 

‘I mean it, kid. Your uncle’d pound me into the ground if anything happened to you ‘cause of me.’

‘I’ll be careful.’ 

I grab my coat and head out. I still feel half asleep and I can’t clear that green dress out of my mind, so I walk around the block a few times. After the third time, there’s no mistaking it: someone is following me. He’s got dark glasses and a hat with a low brim. As far as tails go, this one isn’t too bad. He follows at a good distance, makes it seem natural. We take a nice leisurely stroll together until I’m sure we’ve both worked up a good sweat, then I head back to the office. The phone is ringing and I answer it just in time, panting a little more than I’d like. Too many Marlboros, not enough walks.

‘Bucky? It’s Peter. Peter Parker.’ 

‘That was quick.’ 

‘I got lucky. A photographer buddy of mine who works for the society pages remembered seeing a car like the one you said outside the Carlyle the other week.’ There’s a sound of papers shuffling. ‘Some actress was coming out of the hotel and he was getting pictures. He showed me this one and well, it’s pretty blurry, but the car’s in the background and there’s a couple of guys in dark suits getting out of it and two people who could be those ones you described.’

‘You did great, kid. Really, I’m impressed.’

‘Thanks, Bucky.’ 

I head out of the office again to the alley where I keep my car parked along with the rest of the garbage. I pull out in the direction of the bridge and a little blue Packard pulls away from the curb. It keeps a respectful distance. The driver wears dark glasses and a hat with a low brim. 

We park a couple of blocks from the Carlyle. It’s not the swankiest joint but a guy like me could still get frowned out of a place like that so I set to loitering at a newsstand across the street and smoking a cigarette. My tail saunters past and around the corner. 

I smoke three cigarettes while the newsie gives me the stink eye. I know when someone interesting comes in or out of the hotel by the flurry of activity from the tabloid reporters outside. A shutterbug comes over and buys a paper, scans it, eyes me up and down and points to a picture on the society pages.

‘That’s one of mine,’ he says. ‘She wasn’t happy.’

‘I’ll bet.’ 

His face does something funny, like he’s having his first thought of the day. ‘Say, for a reporter you sure don’t seem too interested in who’s coming or going.’

‘A reporter, am I?’ I tap ash off my cigarette. ‘Maybe I’m waiting on a big tip.’

‘Yeah?’ He tries to look sly. ‘You wanna share the goods? My picture, your byline?’ 

‘Sure.’ I drum my fingers against my side, then take out the picture of the Maximoffs. ‘Say, I can trust you, right?’

‘Of course.’ He looks so eager I’m worried he’ll hurt himself. ‘I’m a real trustworthy guy.’

‘You seen a man around here, wears a black suit, probably got his face covered? He drives a big black car, might have a couple of teenagers with him.’ 

‘I mighta done.’ His eyes slide to a blonde getting out of a car, do an assessment, and snap back to me. ‘Lots of guys in black suits around this place. Who are they and why should I care?’

I showed him the picture of the twins. 

‘They don’t look like the type you see around here.’

‘All the more reason they oughta stick out,’ I say. ‘You seen ‘em or not?’

‘Don’t reckon I have.’ I can see the light in his eyes go dim as he loses interest. ‘Reckon you got yourself a bad tip, pal.’

He goes back to sulk on the other side of the street. 

I turn to the newsie. ‘Alright, kid, I’ll give you a buck to give me something more interesting.’

‘There’s a lotta guys who come in and outta here what don’t show their faces, and a lotta nice cars, but I reckon I’ve seen ‘em together.’ He fishes out a little notepad with some pencil sketches in it. ‘Mighta seen those teenagers too.’

I flick through the notepad. ‘These aren’t half bad. You oughta quit the paper-selling business, kid.’ 

‘And you oughta stop telling people you’re a reporter, shamus.’ He gives me a sly look that’s much better than the photographer’s. 

‘People make assumptions, I neither confirm or deny.’ I stop at a sketch of a dark-haired girl. ‘This could be her.’

‘She was here a few days ago, got in that big black car. Seemed a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but it’s still hard to miss a girl that pretty. Not when you’ve got eyes in your head. You can keep that if you want, for another buck.’ 

I pay up. ‘What about the boy?’ 

‘Haven’t seen him for a while. Sorry, mister.’ He scratches his head like he’s trying to remember something. ‘Your friend was right that there’s a lot of men dressed in black around this place, but from what I can tell there’s a few what seem to work together.’

‘Thanks, kid.’

I give him another buck and my card and stroll across to the hotel. The doorman is so shocked that I’d try and enter that he opens the door by accident – although that could be my imagination. 

The Carlyle was built too well, too late. The lobby is so fancy I feel like I could catch money just by standing in it, but the money ran out in the Depression and the whole place feels like it’s waiting for glory years that never arrived. There’s a lot of marble and a chandelier that must take a week to clean, and a big open fireplace that’s currently empty of so much as a spark. A few swells stand around in their finery trying to look like people who know people. A man in black stands near the empty fireplace, hat low over his eyes.

The concierge looks about as happy to see me as can reasonably be expected. I stick a cigarette in my teeth and lean on the desk and smile real wide. He wrinkles his nose and lights my cigarette with a match from a little book in his breast pocket. 

‘Thanks, pal.’ I take a drag and blow smoke back into the lobby.

‘Is there something I can help you with?’ he asks the question like he’s asking me to leave.

‘I’m looking for my kid sister.’ I try to look concerned. ‘She’s run off with an older man, I’m trying to restore the family honour.’

‘Name?’ 

‘She probably used a fake one. You have any dames check out of here a couple of days ago? I’ll know which one is her.’ 

He drums his elegant fingers on the desk and looks down his nose at me.

‘That’s a real nice look. Must have taken lots of practice. I can tell you’re a professional.’ I pull a couple of hard-earned dollars out of my pocket. ‘I’m sure even a professional like you isn’t above helping nice folks like us. Our poor sainted mother, her heart is breaking...’

He takes a while to decide it’s better to humour me than cause a fuss, but he gets there in the end. He tucks the dollars into his breast pocket, along with the matchbook, and opens the guest log with something that’s too stuck-up to be a sigh. ‘One of our permanent residents entertains young invalids on a regular basis. One of his frequent companions was last here a few days ago. Miss Willa Saunders was the name I was given, and the name on her identification. If I recall she was a dark-haired girl, slight accent. Often travelled with a young man of similar age. Would that be her?’ 

I suck thoughtfully on my smoke. I don’t know when the girl might have gone from witch to invalid, but I’m not about to start asking if she looked like she could throw curses. ‘That’d be her alright. What about the man they were with? The one who lives here?’ 

‘I’m afraid I really cannot provide any more information about our residents. Although I can I assure you, nothing untoward goes on here.’ 

I snort. ‘Is that right?’

He looks the least sorry I think I’ve seen a person look as he says, ‘So sorry you missed her.’

‘Ah, well. Better luck next time.’ I stub out my cigarette in the potted palm and stick my hands in my pockets, strolling back out into the abominable sunshine. The man in black doesn’t seem to notice me.

My tail is sitting in his car again. I take a snaky route back to Brooklyn, hoping to shake him, but his car is waiting for me when I get back to the office. 

The lock to my office has been broken. I tap the door and it swings open. It doesn’t look like it’s been ransacked at first glance, but a few things seem a little off. The drawer to the filing cabinet isn’t shut properly, and there are some papers on my desk that I don’t remember leaving out. Nothing’s missing so far as I can tell. There’s as much a chance that whoever did this is trying to spook me as there is that they were actually looking for something. I pat the photo in my pocket. 

I decide to get that egg sandwich after all. The automat is right across the road, and I have a rapport going with one of the waitresses, or so I like to think.

‘Hey there, detective. You here for an egg cream?’ she calls out as I enter. ‘I’ve got my break soon, we could share a sundae.’

‘Make it a banana split.’ I deposit my change in the machine and collect my sandwich.

I sit in one of the booths and she comes over with the coffee pot. ‘When you going to take me away from all this, huh?’

‘You notice anyone interesting going into my building earlier?’

‘Aw, you got your work face on.’ She clacks a varnished nail against her teeth. ‘A redhead came in a couple of hours ago and had a cuppa coffee. She stared at your building through the front window for ages. I didn’t see her go in but I reckon I saw her leave again. And a coupla guys in dark coats went in a little while ago. They looked pretty shifty.’

‘Thanks, Dot.’ I give her one of my good smiles.

‘That looks like it hurts.’ She points at my eye. ‘You caught up in something, Mr Barnes?’ 

‘Always.’ I peer out at my office through the window. ‘Tell me about this redhead.’

She pouts. ‘You fooling around on me?’

‘Aw, Dot, you know you’re my best girl.’ 

‘Too right.’ She removes the pencil from behind her ear and picks up a napkin, sketching quickly. 

‘Seems like everyone I meet today is a damn artist. Pardon my language.’

‘I got hidden depths.’ She smiles like she means it. ‘I do all the chalkboards. The menus, too. Anyway, that’s your girl.’

‘Thanks, doll. Rain check on that root beer float?’

‘Sure.’

The woman in the drawing is the same woman who came to my office. Dot has really captured her: she looks like trouble. I push her out of my mind. I can think about all that again when it’s closer to eight o’clock.

My tail is leaning on the hood of his Packard, smoking a cigarette. He starts whistling when he sees me, a snatch of the Andrews Sisters. Another man in dark glasses and a low hat sticks his head out of a car a little further down the street. I try to picture what he might look like in the dark, with a cigarette hanging off his lip. I’m coming up with a lot of threads and no sweater, so I decide to try my luck. 

I stroll across the street and lean on the hood of the car next to the first man. ‘Hey, pal. Awful lot of weather we’ve been having.’ 

‘If you say so.’ 

‘Say, you catch the game yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not a real talkative guy, are you?’ 

‘I guess not.’

‘You’re probably not planning on being straight with me, then.’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Is that so?’ I leer at him. 

‘Hey pal, I’m just trying to smoke my cigarette in peace.’ He makes a show of inhaling and breathing a cloud of smoke into my face. I wave it away.

‘Hard to imagine feeling at peace in weather like this. Feels like Hell has opened up a crack right here in Brooklyn.’ 

‘You and I both know Hell is something far worse than this.’ He drops the cigarette and crushes it beneath his heel.

‘Is that so?’ I ask again. ‘So what’s Hell to you and I, then?’

‘Human nature, Mr Barnes. That’s where the Devil is.’ He launches himself off the bonnet and climbs into the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll be seeing you.’

I step back onto the curb and watch him and his friend drive away. I don’t know what to make of them, so I walk back up to my office. Another whiskey won’t do me any good, but I have one anyway. If that consummate professional at the Carlyle reckons Wanda had identification on her, then maybe she’s stolen someone’s purse. I pull out the phone book and look up Willa Saunders. I find three: one in Brighton Beach, one in Park Slope, and one a few blocks away. I pick up the phone again.

The Park Slope address seems familiar, so I try there first. It’s disconnected. The one in Brighton Beach turns out to be a very old woman who assures me that her purse is quite safe thank you very much, and she checks it just to make sure. I write down the third address and decide to walk off the whiskey. 

The building is a rundown block of flats. There’s a radio blasting big band and a baby crying loud enough to nearly drown it out. The building manager’s office is shut up tight. I go down the little hallway and up the little steps and knock on the door to apartment six. 

The door opens a crack and a bright eye peers at me over the chain. ‘Who’re you?’

‘I’m looking for Willa Saunders.’ I keep my hands in my pockets and smile real friendly. 

‘What d’you want?’ The eye narrows.

‘Willa Saunders. I’m worried someone’s stolen her purse, want to make sure she gets it back.’ 

‘No one’s stolen from me.’ 

‘My mistake.’ I turn to leave.

‘Wait!’ The muzzle of a revolver juts through the gap below the chain. ‘Who sent you?’

‘Nobody sent me.’ I take my hand out of my pocket slowly and hold it up. ‘I just got the wrong Willa Saunders, is all.’

‘There seems to be a lot of that going ‘round.’ She closes the door and I start backing up. 

I can hear the chain rattle and then the door flings open and there’s that gun again, pointed right at me. The rest of Willa Saunders looks just as mistrusting as her eye; her body is wiry, tense, hunched like she’s not sure she wants anyone to see it. She’s in a stained housedress and red heels that might’ve been patent leather once upon a time. Her hair is an angry red cloud. 

‘Who sent you?’ she asks again. 

‘My kid sister’s in a bit of trouble. See, she’s been going around fancy Manhattan hotels using a fake name,’ I tell her, ‘and I want to make sure the real Willa gets her stuff back. So I looked her up in the phone book, only, it seems I got the wrong one. I’m sorry for bothering you.’

‘The phonebook?’ she repeats, blinking. She lowers the gun. ‘Just a mistake.’

‘A mistake, that’s right.’ I keep my hands in the air. I can feel sweat pooling at the small of my back. ‘You oughta be careful with that thing.’

‘I know how to use it,’ she scoffs. 

‘Yeah? You use it recently?’ I ask, kicking myself. 

‘How’d you know that?’ She looks scared. The gun shakes a little in her hand. 

‘A hunch.’ I swallow hard and step forward and grab it from her. She doesn’t kick up much of a fuss. 

I push past her into the apartment. The room is trying to be nice but doesn’t know how. There are yellowing doilies on the furniture and a faded poster for a jazz club on one wall. A dead man reclines on the settee, blood adding more dirt to the dirty pillows. There’s a pair of dark sunglasses in his top pocket and a hat sitting on his lap, but his suit is brown tweed.

‘He didn’t think I knew how to use it either,’ she says, and giggles. 

‘Mind if I use your telephone?’ 

‘Sure.’

I call Dugan and give him the address. Willa Saunders sits on the sofa, the dead man’s blood soaking into her skirt. 

***

Dugan and I stand in the little hallway and he writes in his notebook while I smoke a cigarette and the police photographer breaks flashbulbs over the body. 

‘Want to tell me what you were doing here, Bucky?’ Dugan asks, his expression stormy.

‘Case of mistaken identity. I was working, got the wrong name in the phonebook.’ The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, making everything hazy. 

‘So your case is unconnected?’

‘S’far as I can tell.’ I try and wave the smoke away with my hand. What’s another layer of tobacco stains in a place like this?

‘Then you don’t know who this man was working for?’

‘Who says he was working for anyone?’ I drop my voice to a murmur. ‘You wanna give a pal a hand, here?’

‘I really don’t.’ Dugan huffs into his mustache. ‘You swear you’re not involved in this?’

‘Just a coincidence.’

‘I sure hope so. I’m going to keep you out of this one, say a neighbour heard the shot and called it in.’ He gives me a warning look. ‘Don’t ask why. And don’t get in over your head, Bucky.’ 

‘You’re telling me,’ I reply darkly. Then I skulk on out of there. 

My old friends in the dark glasses are back. I take the shortest way I can find back to my building and get in my car. They pull into line behind me as I head to Midtown. 

***

The Park Slope address for the third Willa Saunders is for a building that turns out to be the dressmaker’s shop from the photograph of the twins. It clicks then where I’d seen the address: Mrs Maximoff works in the shop, with Willa Saunders living in the apartment above it. The lights are off and it looks like no one’s inside. Painted letters saying  _ by appointment only _ are peeling off the front door. In the bottom corner of the front window is a sign saying “upstairs lodgings available. enquire within.” I walk around the back and argue with the lock until it sees my side of things. 

There’s a hallway leading to what I assume is the shop, and a narrow staircase. I decide to try the upstairs first. It creaks as noisily as it pleases while I’m trying to creep. At the top of the stairs is a door with a glass pane set in it, just wide enough to show a view of a flat that looks like it would be cramped even without the furniture. I knock, but there’s no answer, so I test the handle and it turns. There’s two bedrooms off a living space so tiny you could barely fit a lounge chair in it, and a kitchenette split in half by the door to a bathroom so small using the toilet would put your knees in the shower. There’s scant furniture and what little there is has a layer of dust on it. On the hall table I find a pamphlet for a sanitorium specialising in care for the elderly, which I suppose answers the question of the whereabouts of Willa Saunders. 

I consider taking a look around the shop, but instinct tells me I won’t find anything else. Still, I’ve got enough to know that Wanda Maximoff is the kind of girl who steals purses from little old ladies at her mother’s workplace. Whatever their mother says, the picture I’m getting of the Maximoff twins isn’t exactly gleaming.

I can hear commotion as I come down the stairs again, like someone’s lumbering around in the shop. I slip out the back door and stroll around to my car. I can see the men with sunglasses upending things through the shop window. I drive back to Brooklyn for the second time today.

The phone is ringing when I get back to the office. I dive for it and answer a little out of breath again.

‘Bucky? It’s Peter. I tried calling a couple of times but I guess you were out.’ 

‘You guessed right.’ I take a deep breath to steady myself. ‘You got that list?’

‘Yeah. You wanna do lunch? Or, what time is it?’ I can hear some scuffling down the line. ‘Or dinner, I guess. There’s a diner near the  _ Bugle _ offices, it’s not half bad.’

I swear out of hearing range from the receiver then put on a chirpy voice. ‘Sure thing, kid. I’ll see you there.’

He gives me the name of the place and I slump back down to my car. I park near the  _ Bugle _ office and slouch into the diner, giving the waitress the stink eye. Peter’s already waiting for me, twitching all over the booth. 

‘Calm down, kid, you’re gonna wear a hole.’ 

‘How’d my tip about the car work out?’ he asks excitedly. 

‘Real swell,’ I say. ‘Only I’ve just wasted the rest of my afternoon on a hunch that turned out to be nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.’

‘That’s a real shame,’ he says sincerely. This boy’s so sincere I can hardly stand it sometimes. ‘But hey, I got that list for you.’

He rips a page out of the notebook and hands it to me. I scan it quickly, the names of the Maximoffs jumping out at me like they’re printed in another colour. ‘There must be nearly fifty names here.’ 

‘Forty three. Lot of runaways in Brooklyn.’ He taps the list. ‘I’ve put a circle next to the ones where the cops reckon they just skipped town, which is a lot of them. The ones with stars are the ones where they reckon for sure they’re dead, and the rest are ones where they’ve got no theory at all.’

‘How’d you get all this?’ I ask, impressed.

‘I, um, now don’t get mad-’ his face goes pink.

‘ _ How did you get this, Peter _ ?’ I give him my scary face. It’s pretty scary.

‘Well normally they like me just fine down at the station and try and help me out but this time they didn’t want to tell me anything but I didn’t want to leave empty handed, on account of I knew you were relying on me, so I, well, I… sorta… broke into the police records room…’ his voice gets quieter and quieter until it trails off completely.

‘You  _ what _ ?!’ I snap. Peter jumps and the other diner patrons stare disapprovingly at us. ‘You know how much your uncle is going to murder me? A lot, is how much.’

‘I didn’t get caught!’ he protests. ‘I just- I knew you needed the list, and I didn’t want to let you down.’

‘I told you to play it safe, use your sources.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose and take several deep breaths. ‘Alright. Alright, it’s ok. You pull a stunt like this again and it won’t be, but for now, it’s ok.’

‘Is there anything else you want me to find out?’ He looks so eager it almost hurts. 

‘Like hell, kid.’ I tuck the list into my pocket with the photograph. ‘You keep out of trouble. I mean it, this time. I’m not even going to ask how you managed this one. I don’t want to know.’

The waitress appears to take our orders. I order the corned beef hash and a cherry milkshake. Peter orders the same thing. She sneers at both of us.

‘Y’know, I get the impression she doesn’t like us too much,’ I say when she leaves. 

‘She’s alright. She’s nice when you get to know her.’

‘They usually are.’ 

I let Peter talk while I smoke two cigarettes and try and go through the list. The food arrives and is surprisingly good. 

***

I say goodbye to Peter and drive back to Brooklyn. The sun has been down for a while now but the air is still sticky. New York is in for another unpleasant night.

I’m driving past a row of modest apartment blocks, nothing as shabby as the one I was in earlier, and certainly cleaner than mine. A familiar-looking blue Packard is parked in the street. Sure enough, as I drive past, I see one of my old friends in the low hat and sunglasses behind the wheel, staring up into one of the apartment blocks. I park with a view of the building and see someone move about in an upstairs window. Sunglasses doesn’t seem to see me watching him watch the apartment. I stick about for a little while, then make note of the building’s address and drive back to my own apartment with a solid plan to fall into bed with a bourbon. 

I can hear someone moving around in my apartment from outside. The lock isn’t broken so at least they’re polite, but the door is still ajar. I open it as softly as I can and pull my gun out of my pocket. There’s not a lot of space for someone to hide. I can see her silhouetted against the window.

I raise the gun. ‘How nice to see you again, Miss…?’ 

‘Did I not introduce myself? How rude of me,’ she purrs in that incredible voice. ‘Natasha Romanoff. Don’t turn on the light.’

‘Yeah? Why not?’ I sneer.

‘I would prefer it if the men who’ve been tailing you didn’t know I was here.’ She moves towards me, away from the window. ‘Wait until I’m in the kitchen.’

I keep my gun on her as she walks into the next room, then turn on the light. She’s still bathed in shadow, but I can see a little more of her. Not as much as I’d like. 

‘I take it you weren’t interested in our offer?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.’ I keep the gun trained on her. There’s not much else to do.

‘That’s a rotten way to treat your clients.’ 

‘I thought we decided you’re not my client,’ I say, pocketing my gun. ‘I’m going to fix myself a drink, mind if I turn the light on in there?’

‘Give me a moment.’ She moves further back into the kitchen, away from the grimy window. ‘Go ahead.’ 

I switch the light on, mostly to get a decent look at her. She really is beautiful, spilling out of a wine-coloured dress and red lips I wouldn’t mind getting acquainted with. She also looks like she could kill me if I tried it. 

I pull a glass off the shelf and shake it at her. She nods, so I pull down another. I fix us both bourbon with soda water and lots of ice and move back to the living room, switching off the light as I go. She leans in the doorway, half hidden in shadow. I set my drink down and take off my jacket. I feel her eyes on me and my awkward movements. Something about her gets my hackles raised. 

‘If you don’t mind, this weather makes me itch.’ 

She averts her gaze and I unbutton my shirt and peel it off. The fabric is damp with sweat. My undershirt is soaked through. I gingerly undo the straps of my prosthetic arm.

‘Do you need help?’ she asks softly.

‘It’s fine,’ I reply, curter than I meant it. The prosthetic drops to the coffee table with a thud. I put my shirt back on but don’t button it, letting the empty sleeve flap. ‘You’re willing to pay an awful lot of money for a one-armed detective, Miss Romanoff.’

‘Your clients tell me you’re worth the money. For the most part.’ Her eyes slide to the prosthetic. ‘Is that a bullet hole?’

‘That particular client probably wouldn’t provide a particularly glowing recommendation.’ I take a long sip of my drink. ‘So.’

‘So. You don’t want to work with me, and it seems you aren’t going to shoot me. What are you going to do, Mr Barnes?’ 

‘I’m going to drink this and go to bed and hope the last I see of you is in my dreams.’ I take another sip. 

‘Why are you turning my employer down?’

‘I don’t like the idea of working for a man who won’t hire me himself, but sends his girl to do it. A man like that is hiding something, and I don’t like working for people who are hiding anything bigger than an extramarital affair.’ I fix her with an icy look. ‘I especially don’t like the idea of working for someone who would send his girl to break into my apartment when I can’t make an appointment I didn’t get any say in making.’

‘And the cheque?’ Her icy look is much better than mine.

‘I’ll tear it up right now, if you like, although I’ve half a mind to hang onto it for reasons of emotional distress.’ She snorts at that. ‘I already told you, I’ve got another case.’

‘Keep the cheque, Mr Barnes. You found a body today, and you want to know who put it there.’

‘A nice girl named Willa Saunders put it there. Or she might’ve been nice, before she shot someone.’

‘Yes, but aren’t you curious about who she shot?’

‘You tellin’ me you know?’

‘The dead man worked for my employer, who is none too happy about another one of his men being killed.’

‘Another?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.

‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Sure.’ I laugh coldly. ‘So you’re telling people who work for this guy end up dead. Hell of a pitch.’

‘I’m saying we have a lot of work for you, if you want it.’ She looks bored, like she talks about dead bodies every day. ‘When you’ve wrapped up whatever tawdry little matter it is you’re working on, you come and see me.’ 

‘Like Hell.’

‘Don’t be coarse.’

‘Pardon my manners. How’d a nice girl like you get caught up in all this skulking about business, anyhow?’ I find myself asking. 

‘You and I both know I’m not a nice girl. Besides, you’re the detective; I’m sure you spend a great deal of time skulking about.’ Her eyes glimmer above the rim of her glass.

‘Well, you’ve got me there.’ 

‘How’d  _ you _ end up in a place like this, doing sleazy little jobs for sad little people?’ She asks as she slides around the doorway, back to the wall, and yanks on the cord for the blinds. They close with a rattle and a  _ thwip _ . ‘A handsome man like you ought to be living a little less meagrely, Mr Barnes.’

‘I’m not sure that follows, and I am sure that I don’t like your tone.’ I get up to pour myself another drink and she ducks into my chair. ‘I don’t respond well to bribery, and I don’t believe people who try to flatter me.’

‘All I mean is that there are people who like to be surrounded by beautiful things, and will pay for that privilege. And you may not believe flattery but you  _ are _ beautiful, even with the black eye.’ 

‘The Hell are you talkin’ about?’ I growl, rounding on her. I’m drunk and I’m sore and my speech goes the way of my manners. ‘You break in here, try and give me money, insult my work, and now you’re, what, makin’ a pass at me? Tryin’ to sell me to someone? I don’t understand you.’ 

‘You never will. But you’d like to.’ She crosses her legs slowly. ‘Take the job, maybe you’ll get close.’

I take a deep breath in and let it out my nose. ‘I don’t respond well to seduction either, Miss Romanoff.’

‘Pity.’

I rough up the ice tray a little. An ice cube goes whizzing under the fridge. I make a note to slip in the puddle later. 

I sit down again in a different chair. Romanoff looks good sitting in my living room. I’d like to see her sitting on some of my other furniture too. I’d very much like to be seduced by her, despite what I said. I consider putting my hand on her knee, but I’ve only got the one and I think I’d like to keep it. 

‘So what is your employer’s business, exactly?’ 

‘As far as you’re concerned, it’s all entirely above board.’

‘This stinks. You realise how much this stinks, dontcha?’ I try to look at her with a face full of smarts, but I guess I probably just look a little slack-jawed. ‘Why in the Hell  _ should _ I take this job?’ 

‘My employer is a good person to have on your side, Mr Barnes, but a very dangerous enemy.’ Her voice and expression don’t change at all when she says it, but I feel like all the ice in my glass is suddenly sliding down my spine. 

‘I was wondering when we’d get to the threats.’ 

‘It’s not a threat, Mr Barnes, just a reality. You’ve already been paid. It would be silly to turn us down.’ She empties her glass. ‘You’ve also very rudely hurt my feelings, so you could take this job to make it up to me.’

‘How’d I hurt your feelings?’ I scoff.

‘I’m not used to being turned down.’ She gives me a playful little smile that makes me want to roll over like a puppy dog. 

I sigh deeply and obnoxiously. ‘I’m going to go to sleep now, Miss Romanoff. You can join me if you like, but somehow I don’t think you actually will.’ 

I leer at her, but my heart’s not in it.

‘I’d stick with your instincts on that one. If it’s alright with you, I’ll let myself out once I feel anyone who may be watching is satisfied that you’re asleep.’ 

‘Suit yourself. But I should warn you, I have night terrors.’

‘That doesn’t bother me, Mr Barnes.’

On the safe side of my bedroom door I take my shirt off again, leaving the sweaty undershirt. After a moment’s consideration I decide to leave my trousers on as well. It's been a long while since I’ve been naked in front of anyone but my doctor, and I don’t trust her not to come looking. Not that I really believe she’s interested, but I get the feeling she likes seeing people vulnerable. I climb into bed and turn out the light, settling in self-consciously. She doesn’t make a sound in the next room but I can feel her presence at the window like a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random historical/setting note: The Carlyle is a real luxury hotel in Manhattan which opened right at the start of the Depression, struggled for several years, then was bought in 1948 (when this story is roughly set) and turned into the incredibly posh joint it is today. I'm just borrowing the name and those brief factoids from the first 20-odd years of the hotel's history.


	3. Cat-and-Mouse

I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but I do. My alarm wakes me when the sun is barely a blush in the sky. The apartment is empty. I realise it’s a couple of days since I had a shower or even shaved so I set to doing that. I catch myself in the mirror accidentally; one eye purple and swollen, gaunt cheeks covered in stubble, mouth slack with sleep. A stranger so unfamiliar that for once it’s not upsetting. I shower in water hot enough to make me woozy and scrape a razor over my face. Then I drink some orange juice and two cups of coffee and eat half a bagel. On my kitchen counter Miss Romanoff has left another creamy white card with a phone number embossed in gold. I stick it in my wallet.

My usual tail follows me as I drive to the apartment building from last night, the one where I saw the Sunglasses Goon. It’s early enough that there’s almost no one around, but I can see another familiar car a little way up the street. It tickles me to think how I must be making them nervous. 

I smoke a cigarette and wait for movement in the window. After half an hour I see someone get up and start moving around. I can’t make them out too well but they look male, well-built. Fifteen minutes later a man emerges through the front door, dressed in a grey suit with a plain blue tie. A grey hat with a blue stripe is pushed down low over his eyes. 

I’m expecting him to get in a car but he starts walking up the street. I follow at a distance. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. He nods and smiles at everyone he passes. At one point he tilts his head back and stares up at the sky with a broad, almost goofy smile. I wouldn’t mind getting in the way of a smile like that. He’s a regular hunk, lantern-jawed with golden hair peeking out from under his hat. I might think he was too pretty to be anything but frivolous if he didn’t carry himself like a military man. 

It takes a while for me to realise he knows he’s being followed. He must figure out that I’m onto him being onto me almost right away, because suddenly he darts into a building. I follow; it’s an office building with a big central staircase. I look up and see his head poking down from a couple of stories above me. He’s fast. There’s no point pretending now, so I give chase.

I take the stairs a couple at a time and almost catch up, but he runs down a hallway. He barrels into a clerk, sending armfuls of paper flying. They clutter the air like giant snowflakes, sticking to me as I run through them. Rogers disappears into one of the offices and I get there just in time to see him jump out the window onto the fire escape. I stick my head out the window and watch as he leaps off the steps into the alley, rolls, and takes off running. 

I sprint back through the hallway, past the swearing clerk, and run down the stairs so fast I almost go flying. I go round the alley on the building’s other side, through the back door of a laundry and out through the front of a shop and hook right. I’m sure I’ve missed him but he must have hung back a minute to make sure I was following. He comes around the corner and has to brake hard to avoid bowling me over. He ends up tripping into a pile of boxes, sending a garbage can rolling and clanging onto the sidewalk.

The hunk peels a strip of wet cardboard off his chest. I stick out my hand with a grin and he takes it. I pull him up and he brushes himself off. He’s lost his hat somewhere. We’re both panting like dogs. 

‘You planning on shooting me?’ he asks.

‘I reckon if I was going to shoot you, I would have left you in the garbage to do it.’

‘Fair enough.’ He sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘So who the Hell are you, then?’

‘Name’s James Barnes. Who the Hell are you?’ 

‘That’s a new one.’ He laughs like he means it. ‘You’re tailing me and you don’t even know who I am?’

I shrug. ‘Funny old world, ain’t it?’

‘Rogers. Steve Rogers.’ He extends a hand and I shake it. He squints at me. ‘Wait, did you say your name is James Barnes? As in middle name Buchanan?’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘Bucky.’ His face goes soft, kind of mushy-looking. Like an overripe fruit. ‘You don’t remember me? Hell, we grew up on the same block.’

Some cogs that I thought were much better oiled finally start turning in my brain.

‘Little Stevie Rogers?’ I whistle. ‘You got bigger.’

‘So I did.’ Something uncomfortable darts across his face and is quickly replaced with what looks alarmingly like enthusiasm. ‘Say, you want to get a cup of coffee? Then maybe you can tell me what you’re tailing me around for.’

‘Maybe you can tell me.’

We find a quiet deli and order coffee and rugelach. Rogers seems agitated, which is hardly surprising. He can’t seem to stop staring at me. Every time he looks elsewhere it’s like he’s doing it by force. 

‘You seem a little different to my usual tails,’ he says after a while.

‘Yeah? How’s that?’ 

‘For one thing, you tend to stick out.’ He leans back and folds his arms, considering me with cool blue eyes. ‘A one-armed man with a black eye is a description you can give to police.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘You a war hero?’

‘I served.’

‘You lose your arm that way?’

‘I did.’

‘Then you’re a war hero.’

‘You served too, or I’m a monkey’s uncle.’ That dark thing moves in again, then his face smoothes back over. He looks too perfect, like plastic, and it makes the back of my teeth itch. ‘You really think what we did over there was heroic?’

‘Don’t you? We saved lives.’ 

‘Is that what we did?’ I take out my frustration by lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m looking for a couple of kids. Teen-agers. They went missing a few weeks ago. I start investigating, some men dressed in black with dark sunglasses start following me around. By chance, I happen to spot one of ‘em outside your building. Any idea why?’

‘What kids?’ I show him the picture. He frowns at it, a crease forming between his brows. ‘I haven’t seen them. And I don’t know why I’m being followed.’

‘Hrrm.’ I take a long drag and blow smoke up into the ceiling fan. ‘What happened to you, Steve? You used to be a skinny little scrapper. Now you’re… this.’

I wave my hand at his torso. The wide cut of his suit isn’t enough to hide his physique. It’s a miracle he doesn’t burst out of the seams every time he stretches. 

‘Seriously, pal, what’s your secret?’

‘Calisthenics,’ he says tightly. 

‘Alright, don’t tell me.’ We glare at each other across the little table. ‘We were pals, you and I. before you got caught up in… whatever it was you got caught up in.’

‘I remember. But that was a lifetime ago, Bu- James. We were just kids.’ His voice has gone soft. Steve is quiet for a long moment, and when he talks again he’s all business. He taps the photograph that still lies on the table between us. ‘Younger than these two. And we were never that close.’

‘So that’s why you never wrote me.’ He flinches. It’s more than I want to get into right now. I take my card out of my wallet and slide it across the table. ‘Their mother’s worried about them. I don’t know what you’re caught up in, and frankly I don’t want to know, but I promised I’d find her kids.’

He stares at the card for a while then slips it into his pocket. ‘I ought to get going, I’ve got lunch at the Carlyle.’

‘In Manhattan?’ 

‘That’s the one.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘My date won’t take kindly to me showing up smelling of that garbage you knocked me into. I need to change.’ 

I frown at the word “date”. ‘You knocked yourself in the garbage, pal.’

He laughs, a loud, clear sound, splaying one hand on his stomach. ‘It was good to see you. Maybe when all this is over we ought to get a proper drink.’

‘Maybe by then we’ll have our stories straight and we can invent some old times to catch up on.’

‘Sounds good.’ His eyes are soft when he shakes my hand and walks out into the street. I sit for a moment, then jump to my feet and dash out after him.

‘Rogers!’

‘Did I forget something?’

I walk right up to him, get a little close for comfort. I want to see every expression in those dreamy blue eyes. He doesn’t pull back.

‘What did the army do to you, Steve?’ I ask quietly.

His eyes widen, just a little, and his mouth tightens like he’s biting the inside of his cheek. I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t standing so close. 

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He looks over my shoulder and grins slowly, then gives me a wink. ‘Looks like my usual guys have finally caught up. See you ‘round, Bucky.’

I turn and scan the path; a man in dark glasses and a low hat is leaning against a lamppost, hands in his pockets. He detaches himself from the post and starts strolling towards us. I turn and see that Rogers is already halfway down the block, walking at a brisk pace.

I’m nearly at the office before I realise the picture of the Maximoff twins is gone. 

***

I sit in my office and sweat for a bit, just for the hell of it. My stump is itching like crazy and there’s a buzzing in my head, like a fly’s crawled up my nose and into my brain. I should be looking into the list of missing kids that Peter gave me. A breeze ruffles the pages of the phonebook like it wants me to start making calls. I get up and close the window until the room gets too stuffy to bear. Then I get in the car and drive across the Bridge to Manhattan and the Carlyle. 

‘Hey, if it ain’t the gumshoe.’ 

‘How’s business, kid?’ 

‘I got some news for ya.’ 

‘How’s that?’

‘A fella in black came in last night and left about an hour ago with a girl, a real nice piece with yellow hair. About the same age as your brunette. Looked like she could barely stand.’ He grins at me. ‘Don’t know which way they went, but still. Reckon that’s worth another buck?’

I swear. Should’ve been here, Barnes. ‘If you rub those two I already gave you together, maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll breed.’

‘I already spent half a’ one.’ He grins at me. ‘Took my girl out, got us a milkshake with two straws. Gave the rest to my ma.’

‘You’re too young to have a girl.’

‘Says who?’

I give him another buck and cross the street. The shutterbug is there with the rest of the hounds and he gives me the stink eye. I leer at him and tip my hat to the doorman. 

There’s a few people making a show of being in the lobby of the Carlyle, but I can’t see Rogers among them. I do, however, spot three men in black suits. Two of them look up when I enter and their gaze sends a strange shiver down my spine.

The concierge – a different one – crooks his finger at me.

‘May I enquire as to why you’re here?’ This guy’s not as good at hiding his disdain as the last one.

The men in black suits are nodding at each other. One of them starts moving toward me, hand reaching into his jacket. I turn to the concierge and panic in style.

‘One of your guests left some…  _ personal _ photographs in the back of my cab, you catch my drift.’ I wink at him. ‘I’m doin’ the classy thing an’ tryin’ to return them ‘fore they get blackmailed.’

‘How good of you.’ 

‘I’m a real upstandin’ sorta guy.’ I prop my elbow on the desk and leer at him. ‘Big blonde fella, looks like Burt Lancaster swallowed Clancy Ross. Might be here with a date. They gotta room?’

He gives me a cold, lizard look. I can see the cogs struggling to turn under the weight of all his pomade. Finally, he says, ‘I believe they’re in the restaurant. If you will kindly wait here a moment, I will have someone come down and collect you.’ 

‘Well, ain’t that swell of ya.’ 

I stick my hands in my pockets and whistle to myself, pretending like I don’t see the man in black slowly approaching. After a few moments one of the hotel gorillas comes down and leads me to the service elevator. I’m worried this guy’s here to knock the stuffing out of me, but it seems like he’s just supposed to intimidate me out of making a scene. 

He leads me to the entrance of the restaurant. I can see the back of Rogers’ head and a little bit of a brunette. The little bit I can see of her is very nice.

The gorilla talks to one of the waiters and he goes and whispers something in Rogers’ ear. Rogers turns around and spots me and I wave my fingers at him. His face darkens. The brunette leans to the side to see me. Her hair is pinned up and she’s wearing a cherry red dress with a neckline that her curves make almost scandalous. 

Rogers stalks over to me. He dismisses the gorilla with a jerk of his head. He’s changed into a slate grey suit and he’s wearing another sedate blue tie. Someone must have told him the colour brings out his eyes. They weren’t wrong.

‘You again.’

‘Your friend in there looks real nice. I wouldn’t mind getting acquainted with her.’

‘Look, Mr Barnes, I had fun this morning, but if you’re going to make a habit of following me around then we’re going to have a problem.’ 

‘There’s a permanent contingent of those goons who’ve been tailing us both in the lobby of the place you decide to have lunch. And you took the photograph.’ His eyes drop to the floor and his ears turn pink. ‘What do you know, Rogers?’

‘Look, I can’t talk here. I’ve got your card, why don’t I swing by your office later?’ 

‘You really going to talk then?’ 

‘I’m going to think about it.’

‘Is everything alright?’ the brunette asks, sliding her hand through Rogers’ arm. Her accent is English, all plummy round vowels. She’s looking at me like she’s a cat and I’m the cream. 

‘Mr Barnes was just going,’ Rogers says stiffly.

‘Didn’t the waiter say something about some photographs?’ she purrs. 

‘Yeah, Rogers. Show her the photograph.’ I turn to leave. ‘My office?’ 

‘I’ll be there around three o’clock.’ 

He stalks back to their table. The brunette gives me a cool, curious look and follows. 

***

No one follows me out of the lobby. I drive back to Brooklyn and stop off at the automat. Dot pours me a coffee and slides a big slice of pecan pie with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream onto the table in front of me. 

‘You look like you’ve earned that.’

‘Thanks, doll.’ I eat a big spoonful of ice-cream. ‘See anything interesting today?’

‘No one’s darkened your door today, so far as I can tell.’ 

‘Can you do me a favour?’ 

‘You know, you’re going to have to do me a favour in return one of these days. And it’s going to be a big one.’

‘You know I’m good for it.’ I wink. ‘You see that redhead again, or maybe a neat little brunette snooping around my building, can you give me a call?’

‘She a jilted lover? Should I be jealous?’ 

‘She seems like someone I’d like to see coming, if you catch my drift. I’d like to be given some time to get my affairs in order.’ 

‘You find those kids yet?’ 

‘Not yet.’

‘Their poor mother.’ She gazes mournfully at nothing for a moment, then snaps back to herself. ‘Well, I have every confidence in you, Bucky Barnes. You’re the best detective I know.’

‘Now I’m the one who’s jealous,’ I tease. ‘You been foolin’ around with other detectives behind my back?’

‘What can I say? I have a type.’ The cook calls for her and she waves him off. ‘Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute. See you round, detective.’

I eat my pie and watch my own doorstep and drink my coffee. Then I leave some change on the table and go back across the street. I pour myself a drink and check my watch; there’s still two and a half hours before Rogers is supposed to arrive. I pick up the phone and connect to Peter Parker.

‘Hey, Bucky, I was just about to call you.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I might have a lead on those twins.’ 

I scrabble for a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Shoot.’

‘There’s a building in Hell’s Kitchen, had some weird comings and goings. The police checked it out on suspicion of it being a call house, but they couldn’t find anything.’ He gives me the address. ‘Another reporter was covering the story and decided there was nothing in it, but I heard him say something about one of the neighbours reporting seeing some young people in an upper story window. I asked, and he thinks maybe it could have been a girl with dark hair and a blonde boy.’

‘That’s not a lot to go on.’ 

‘But it’s something, right?’ 

‘More than I’ve had since the last tip you gave me. Thanks, kid.’

‘Let me know how it goes?’

‘Sure.’

I should be able to check out the building and make it back in time to meet Rogers. I park in upper Manhattan and walk into Hell’s Kitchen. The address is near the water. It turns out to be an abandoned three storey building that looks like it might once have been offices. The front doors are boarded up and there’s a big ‘condemned’ sign nailed to them. I slip around the back.

There’s an open doorway off the alley with a single board across it. Garbage spills out of bins, ripe in the heat. A mean old tomcat swats at my bootlaces and runs off shrieking down the alley. At least someone’s got the right idea.

I duck under the board into the building. It’s almost pitch black, and much cooler than outside. I wave my torch around, but it doesn’t do much. There’s some rubbish on the ground, bits of old newspaper and candy-bar wrappers. Someone clearly squatted in here for a while, but I reckon they must’ve gotten wise because it seems like they’ve been gone a long time.

I go through a door and find myself in a cramped stairwell. There’s a layer of dust on the steps and on the wooden handrail, but there are foot- and hand-prints clearly visible where the dust has been disturbed. There’s a good chance they were left by police, but I tap my gat to make sure it’s in reach, just in case. I follow the staircase up and explore the top floor but don’t find anything. Holes in the ceiling mean there’s a little more light up here, so I put away the torch. Then I go back down to the ground floor and stop. I could have sworn from the outside that there were three stories. I go back to the stairwell and head up until I’m on the landing that should lead to the other floor. There’s no doorway, not even plastered up. I pull out my torch and stick my nose real close to the wall. Halfway across the landing, about where you’d expect a door to be, there’s a spot where the wallpaper is a whisper too pale. I knock against it and there’s a telltale echo. 

There’s no indication of a hinge or a knob or even which way the door might swing, so I do what I normally do in these situations and run at it very hard with my wooden arm. 

The door gives way and splinters open into a narrow hallway. There’s less dust here, and the light is different, a little bluer. I put the torch away and palm my revolver. 

The hallway opens up onto a room that takes up almost the whole floor. The windows are painted over, though a couple of them are broken, letting in slanting light. There are a couple of metal bed frames against one wall and something that looks like a dentist’s chair in the centre of the room. The chair makes me think of things I don’t like thinking about, so I don’t look at it. Some papers are scattered on the floor, so I look at those instead.

Mostly they’re numbers and scraps of words in other languages that have been crossed out. On one I find a diagram of a vivisection of a human torso which I drop like it burns. I can just make out another which has the phrase  _ subject 7 responding well _ . My missing arm itches like crazy.

I do a sweep of the room, but don’t find anything else. Beside the hallway is a door that looks like it leads to a cupboard. The floor under the doorway is sticky with something dark. I pocket my gun, ready to open it, and notice my hand is shaking. I take a couple of deep breaths and try again.

I turn the handle slowly, then quickly bring the gun back up. The door seems in a hurry to be opened; something heavy is leaning on it from the inside. I let it go and step back and the body of Pietro Maximoff drops to the floor.


	4. The Body

Pietro’s face is white and his shirt is red, redder than a bloody Mary. I bite back a scream and check the cupboard to make sure no other stiffs are lying in wait. He’s been plugged twice by someone who’s not an expert; they’ve got him once in the shoulder and once in the side. His eyes are open just a silver, showing crescents of bloodshot white. I holster my gun and try to push them closed. His skin is still warm, not the sickly humidity of rot but the warmth of life just leaving.

Still warm. I press my fingers to his wrist; there’s a pulse, but only just. 

‘Pietro? Can you hear me?’ I press my ear to his chest and I can make out a heartbeat and the tiniest flutter of breath. ‘Stay with me, kid.’

I should run and call an ambulance, but I don’t want to leave him in that room with the chair, so I lift him as best I can. I manage to get him over my shoulder. I half imagine I can feel the pathetic movement of his heart against my back.

We get out to the street and he’s still with me. I shout for help and a couple of guys coming back from a shift somewhere see us and run over. One of them dashes off to call an ambulance. The other guy helps me lay Pietro out on the sidewalk. I fold my jacket and put it under his head. 

‘He doesn’t look like he’s going to make it,’ the guy says. 

‘I think he’s been in there a coupla days. If he’s not dead yet, that means he wants to keep living.’ I push his hair back, leaving bloody streaks across his face. ‘Can you hear me, Pietro? Your mother’s looking for you. She’s been worried sick.’ 

He continues with his impression of a corpse. I hold his wrist, making sure I can still feel a pulse, until the ambulance comes. I get in my car and follow it to Saint Clare’s. 

***

They take Pietro straight into the operating theatre. I drop some change into the payphone and the operator connects me.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Maximoff? It’s James Barnes. I have some news.’

‘What is it?’ Her voice is hard and sharp. ‘What have you found?’

I can hear her gasp when I tell her I’ve got Pietro, and there’s a sound like she’s dropped the phone. ‘Are you there, Mrs Maximoff?’

‘I’m here. Please, tell me what happened.’

‘I got a tip that someone saw your kids in an abandoned building. I went to check it out, and- well, I’m not sure you want to hear this.’

‘Please, Mr Barnes. As you said, I can take it.’

I keep it short but I don’t blunt the edges. ‘They clearly left him for dead,’ I finish grimly.

‘Voy is mer!’ There’s a shaky breath down the line, but Natalya Maximoff’s voice is steady when she says, ‘Those bastards.’

‘The hospital has probably called the police by now. I’ll need to be here to answer some questions. Do you have someone who can drive you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, then I’ll see you soon.’

I hang up and drop in some more change.

‘Crystal Joe’s Automat, this is Dottie.’

‘Hey, Dot, it’s Bucky. How’s my best girl?’

‘Ain’t you got a case to work on? Not saying I don’t appreciate the call.’

‘Listen, Dottie, I’m gonna need another favour.’

‘Dancing. Saturday. Six o’clock.’

‘What?’

‘You want all these favours, you gotta take me dancing.’

‘That sounds like you’d be doing  _ me _ a favour.’ 

‘Alright then, we can add it to the list. Saturday, six o’clock. What d’you need?’

‘I’ve got a man coming in at three. It’s very important that I talk to him, but I might be a little late. D’you think you can keep him at the automat if you see him go in my building and come out again?’

‘You know, you really oughta hire a new secretary.’ 

‘You’re telling me.’ 

‘So what’s this guy look like? Tall, blonde hair, nice blue eyes, more handsome than you?’

‘Aw, Dot, you’re gonna break my heart. Wait, how’d you know that?’

‘He’s in here right now. He’s been staring at your building for the past half hour. I just brought him a slice of pie.’

‘And here I was, thinking I was special. Alright doll, can you keep him there ‘til I get back?’

‘Six o’clock on the dot, Bucky Barnes.’

‘You got it.’

I stand outside and smoke a couple of cigarettes. A patrol car rolls up and Dugan gets out. He walks past and nods at me without a word.

Mrs Maximoff arrives moments after the police. She stops long enough to clutch my hand and thank me for being there before running inside. The boy who told me he took them to the docks, Wanda’s old boyfriend, trails in behind her.

I smoke a couple more cigarettes before Dugan finally comes out. I light one for him and hand it over.

‘Not that it ain’t nice to see more of you, sarge, but I wish the circumstances were a little different,’ he says, eyeing me over. ‘Want to tell me how you got into this one?’

I mull it over, thinking about our earlier conversations. ‘I got a tip about a building. Went to check it out, but your lot had already been there. Found the kid in the alley outside.’

‘You saying we missed him?’ Dugan huffs.

‘I’m saying he was probably dumped there after. Satisfied?’ 

Dugan strokes his moustache and considers me with his pale eyes. ‘Why do I get the feeling that’s not the whole story?’

‘It’s enough of the story that it shouldn’t get you in trouble. Say a good samaritan found him, if you like.’ I’m relieved when he nods.

‘If we need anything else I’ll be in touch. The kid’s probably not going to be awake for a while.’

‘Any chance you’ll give me a ring when he is?’

‘Probably not,’ he says with a humourless laugh. ‘But I have no doubt you’ll find out anyway. It seems useless at this point to tell you to keep out of trouble?’

‘I appreciate you doing it anyway.’ 

I don’t feel like having a longer face-to-face with Mrs Maximoff while covered in her son’s blood, so I drive back to Brooklyn and park in the alley behind my building. I check my watch: it’s almost four. I stroll across to the automat and stick my head in the door. Dot is flirting with Rogers. They both look up and their eyes go wide at the sight of me. I jerk my head at Rogers and he stands, drops some change on the table and walks out. Dot is still staring at me with wide eyes so I wink at her and mouth  _ Saturday, six o’clock _ . 

‘Whose blood is that? Is it yours?’ Rogers asks as we stride back across the street.

‘It’s Pietro Maximoff’s.’

‘You found them?’ he says, shocked.

‘One of them. The girl’s still at large.’ 

I lead him up to my office and pour myself three fingers of rye. I drain the glass, then pour myself another. I shake the bottle at Rogers and he nods, so I pour him one as well. Then I excuse myself and go to the little communal bathroom down the hall. Most of the other offices are empty, so I more or less have it to myself. I wash the blood off my hands and splash cool water onto my face. I take a peek in the mirror, just to see who looks back. Half his face is still purple and there’s a streak of blood on his cheek like cheap lipstick. I feel bone-tired enough that I can see a little of myself in there.

I go back to my office and take out the spare shirt I keep in my desk. Rogers stares at my face the whole time I get changed. I try to button the cuff on my prosthetic but my hand is shaking too bad. Without a word, he reaches across the table and does it up. His fingers are surprisingly slender, an artist’s hands. I imagine I can feel the gentle ghost of his touch and it makes me shiver.

‘How do you do the other sleeve?’ he asks curiously.

‘I have them modified.’ I show him; the cuff is a little looser, just wide enough for me to slip my hand through. ‘The tailoring’s expensive, but I haven’t found a nice girl yet who wants to settle down and do up my cuffs for me.’

‘What about Dorothy at the automat? She seemed pretty sweet on you.’

‘Dottie? She’s just a friend. If either of us were actually interested, I’m sure the other would go running.’ 

‘She says you’re taking her dancing.’

‘Not down the aisle.’

‘Some girls take dancing pretty seriously.’ 

‘Not with guys like me.’

He looks at me steadily. It’s unnerving. ‘What are you like?’

‘Broken,’ I reply, far too honestly. ‘Is that why you’re here? To set me up with the girl from the automat?’

‘If Pietro is dead, then doesn’t that mean Wanda is too?’ 

I consider. If Rogers is deeply involved in this, letting him know the kid is still clinging to life might be a bad idea. ‘If she was dead, I feel like we’d have her body by now. There’s still time to find her.’

‘The police will get involved now, surely.’ 

‘Doesn’t mean I have to stop looking. I like to follow things through.’ 

‘I suppose you think that’s an admirable impulse.’ He pulls a packet of Luckies out of his coat and taps one out. I strike a match on the desk and reach across and light it. ‘This business you’re getting messed up in…’

‘What business? I’m still unclear on what the hell is going on here.’ I drum my fingers on the desk. ‘Plenty of people have already told me it’s dangerous. I’ve seen the evidence in the bullet holes in Pietro Maximoff’s body. What I don’t know is the why.’ 

Rogers taps out another cigarette and lights it by holding it to his, end-to-end. He passes it to me and we smoke in silence for a few minutes. I should be thinking about the case, asking questions, but the way he lit my cigarette has me galloping down memory lane on a runaway mule. 

We were thirteen, maybe. I’d seen Steve at school, and I knew he lived a couple of streets over, but we’d never really talked. The other kids kept their distance from me on account of my mother being Jewish and my Irish father being mean as Hell, but occasionally I tagged along with one of the little street gangs.

Steve ran with some rival kids and one day our gangs had a scrap, something about a street corner that was disputed territory. Things were bad in those years and we had to hold on tight to anything we had. Steve got his face rearranged every other week, but I wasn’t much of a bruiser back then; I’d proved I could knock a kid flat if I needed to, so I hardly ever needed to. Not that Steve was much for winning fights, just starting them. 

A couple of kids with broken bottles had got me cornered and I ran for it. I ended up hiding behind a laundry, which is where Steve found me. I thought he’d come to cut me up, or that he’d call and bring the others running, but he just looked at me for a few minutes then said, ‘You gotta cigarette?’

I pulled my Marlboros out of my shirt pocket and handed him one. We stuck them between our teeth, then I took out a box of matches. I lit his while he stared straight at me, the tips of his ears going pink. I could feel my face getting warm from the way he was looking at me. The match burned down to my fingers and I dropped it with a hiss. I pulled another from the box.

‘Wait, don’t waste it,’ he said.

We were squashed in behind a pile of fruit crates so we were already close enough, but he leaned in a little closer, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder, and touched our cigarette tips together until mine took. Then the rest of his face flushed pink to match his ears and he leaned back against the crates. I leaned back next to him, tentatively letting my shoulder rest against his.

We were inseparable for about a month until someone ratted us out and our respective gangs kicked the stuffing out of us. Then it was back to barely knowing the other existed. At some point I just sort of forgot about him altogether. 

‘You look like you’re miles away,’ the adult Rogers says, startling me out of the past.

‘Sorry.’ I accidentally tap my cigarette ash into my drink. ‘Shit.’

‘When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?’

‘1943. Approximately.’ I shrug. ‘You’re supposed to be telling me what you know.’

‘I can’t say much. It’s just guesses, really, and some of it’s classified, but-‘ he frowns, looking past me. ‘Duck!’

He launches across the table and yanks me forward by the collar just as my glass explodes. We both drop to the floor. 

‘You hit?’ I gasp.

‘I don’t think so.’ 

I poke my head up and stare through the open window. Sun flashes off a scope on a rooftop opposite. Rogers yanks me down again as another bullet explodes the bottle of rye. 

‘You trying to get yourself killed? Keep out of the window!’ 

‘Which one of us are they aiming for?’ 

‘You, I think.’

‘Right. I’ll keep out of the window, then.’ I yank my jacket off the chair and start shuffling to the door on my knees, head down. 

‘Where’re you going? There could be more of them out there!’ Rogers whispers angrily at me.

‘Well I’m not waiting for them to come here. As far as I’m concerned, office hours are over.’ I open the door a crack and peer out. There’s a man in dark sunglasses and a low hat at the top of the stairs. I can see the glint of a revolver in his hand. ‘On second thought, let’s stay in here and play dead.’

‘Is it just one of them?’ I nod. ‘Is there another way out?’

‘The fire escape, at the end of the hall. But it’s not protected.’ 

‘Alright. I’ll go first, down the fire escape. They’re not going to shoot me.’ He crouches like a sprinter at the starting line. ‘You take the main staircase, and I’ll meet you in front of the building.’

He swings the door open and takes off through it before I get the chance to say anything. There’s the sound of a scuffle and I poke my head out. The goon is out cold on the floor and Rogers is disappearing down the fire escape. I stand up and dart into the hall. A bullet hits the doorframe and sends splinters ricocheting. I pick up the goon’s gun and toss it away, then take the stairs at a run. Halfway down I hear a bang and freeze, but I don’t feel shot so I keep running. I make it onto the street and Rogers comes staggering around the side of the building, shirt flooding crimson at the shoulder. 

‘Are you alright?’ I ask stupidly.

‘I’m fine.’

‘What happened?’

‘They shot me.’

‘I thought you said they weren’t going to shoot you.’ 

‘Yeah, well, this is an exciting day for everyone.’ He tosses me a set of keys. ‘The sedan.’

I climb into the driver’s seat and Rogers slides in beside me. We pull away from the curb just as another one of the sunglasses goons appears. I watch him in the rear-view mirror; he scans the pedestrians and comes to a decision, sliding his gun back into his coat.

‘You going to tell me where we’re going, pal?’ I ask. My voice is a little higher than I’d like.

‘I don’t think either of our apartments is safe.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you there, but that’s still not an answer.’

‘Get onto the Bridge, I’ll direct you from there.’

‘And what happens if you pass out from pain and blood loss? Am I supposed to just keep driving around in circles?’

He huffs and glares, but he gives me an address in Manhattan. 

‘You going to make it that far? I’m not against the idea of driving you to the hospital.’ 

‘I’m fine. I’ve had worse.’ He shrugs awkwardly out of his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief, pressing it to his shoulder.

‘Maybe sometime you can tell me about worse,’ I say.

‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,’ he replies with a knowing grin. It’s a brittle, ugly expression.

‘I guess not then.’ 

‘Say, you like baseball?’

‘It’s the American pastime.’

‘Good, let’s talk baseball.’

So we talk baseball until I get to the Manhattan address. It’s a nice-looking brownstone with thick curtains on all the windows. Rogers slings his jacket over his shoulder and gets out, then tells me to park a few blocks away. I do as he says and walk back to the brownstone. I attract more than a few stares along the way.

The brunette answers the door. She’s in brown slacks and a peach-coloured shirt, with a string of pink pearls tight around her throat. I wouldn’t mind having her open the door to greet me more often. She looks perfect, but I can see bloody fingerprints on the snowy skin of her wrist. 

‘Honey, I’m home.’ 

She gives me a withering look and stands aside. I’m led down a short hall into a fashionable sitting room with peacock-printed wallpaper. Steve is shirtless and bleeding all over a beautiful cream-coloured sofa. An enamel kidney dish is perched on his knee. 

‘I can believe the two of you were childhood friends. You both said exactly the same corny thing when you opened my door,’ she says, sitting next to Rogers and picking up a pair of tweezers. ‘Sit down, Mr Barnes. I’ll see to you in a minute.’

Rogers is almost entirely motionless as she pulls bullet fragments out of his shoulder. The room is silent except for the sound of shrapnel clinking into the kidney dish. Finally she rinses the wound with iodine, stitches it up and bandages his shoulder. 

‘It’s your turn, Mr Barnes. Are you going to be a good patient?’ She clicks the tweezers at me.

‘I’m fine. I don’t need sticking.’ 

She raises an eyebrow and moves across the room to me. She has a nice walk. I’d like to see it going in both directions. I don’t know what to do so I scowl at her. She smiles, bends down, and brushes my face. I feel a sharp pain and she holds up a splinter of glass.

‘I, uh, I didn’t know that was there.’ The bullet must have destroyed my alcohol selection with a little more force than I thought.

‘Sit still and try not to bleed too much. I’m going to go sterilise everything.’ 

She takes the equipment and leaves. 

‘Peggy’s something, huh?’ Rogers picks at the edge of his bandage. ‘I’d be terrified of her if she wasn’t my girl. Hell, she is my girl, and I’m still terrified of her.’

‘I’ve been meeting a lot of women like that lately.’ I poke gingerly at my face. 

Now that I’ve realised I’ve got glass in me I look down and see that my whole left arm looks like a porcupine. I use some dirty words under my breath and start taking my shirt off.

Peggy re-enters. Her eyebrow quirks ever so slightly at the sight of me. My undershirt still has a little blood on it and my prosthetic looks like something out of an issue of  _ Eerie _ . She sits on a divan and turns my cheek to face her. 

‘You’ve got a bullet in your prosthetic. A different calibre to the one I dug out of Steve.’

‘You got shot?’ Steve sits up, trying to see.

‘That’s a, uh, pre-existing condition.’ 

‘I thought you PIs mostly skulked around taking pictures of cheating husbands,’ Steve says. ‘No offence. You just seem to get shot at a lot.’

‘That came courtesy of the wife of one of the cheating husbands.’ I tap the bullet buried in the wood. ‘But it has been a busy week.’

‘How  _ is _ your investigation going?’ Peggy asks as she tugs a splinter of glass out of my face. ‘You know, in your professional opinion.’ 

‘I don’t know that I oughta say.’ I pull bits of glass out of my arm with my fingers and drop them into the kidney dish. ‘I think I’d be stupid to trust either of you. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ she says mildly before swabbing my face with iodine and passive aggression. 

‘Besides, it’s still your turn to talk, Rogers.’ 

He drums his fingers on the couch cushion. ‘Peggy, think you could get me a shirt?’

‘I don’t think the man that lives here is your size, Steve.’

‘Wait, this isn’t your house?’ I say, surprised. She certainly seems like she belongs in a place like this. 

She gives me a teasing look. ‘Do you think I’d let Steve bleed everywhere if this was my house? They’re in Boston, visiting her family.’

‘So you broke in?’ 

‘Of course not. He gave me the key.’ She slinks out of the room. I appreciate her walk going the other way.

‘You think that’s true?’

‘I tend not to ask.’ He stands and stretches with his good arm. ‘I still can’t believe they shot me.’

‘I’m still not sure who’s dragging who into which mess.’ 

Peggy returns with an undershirt and helps him pull it on. It’s far too small, and every time he shifts the shirt looks like it’s about to give up. 

‘You look ridiculous,’ she tells him with a sigh.

‘I don’t like being naked in the presence of a lady.’ 

‘I’d hardly say I’m a lady.’ 

‘This is real cute and all, but I’m pretty damn tired, so if anyone knows anything I think it’s about time they spoke up,’ I snarl. 

‘Like I said before, I can’t say much,’ Steve says, ‘except that I think this might be related to something I was involved with during the war.’

‘What kind of something?’

Steve sighs and licks his lips. ‘It was part of our arms race with the Germans. Medical experiments. I can’t say more than that. I’ve- already said too much, probably.’

‘How are the Maximoff twins involved?’ 

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you say the same thing to Pietro’s mother?’ 

‘Fine.’ His glare is flinty as he straightens. ‘I was staying at the Carlyle. There was a lunch, for people who’d been involved in certain military activities. A man came up to me afterwards.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t really know. He kept his face covered. He was tall, though, and he sounded German.’ Steve rubs the back of his head. ‘He had this girl with him, young, she seemed a little… vague. He asked if I’d come to their room and I said yes. The man knew about the experiments, had the girl hand me this little pill case. He told me they’d make me feel like… like I was “at the height of my greatest victory”, or something.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I have no idea. I told them thank you, but I wasn’t interested. A couple of days after that is when I started to notice people following me.’ 

‘Why would they be following you if you turned them down?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to figure out a way to change my mind.’

‘What were the experiments?’

‘I can’t tell you.’ 

I drum my fingers on my knee and look Rogers over. He looks a little pale, like you’d expect of a man sitting in a puddle of his own blood, but he didn’t make a single sound when Peggy was sticking him. There’s a hole in his shoulder and he barely seems to feel it. I have a hunch, and I don’t like where it’s taking me.

‘Steve, I want you to level with me. For old time’s sake.’ I walk across the room and crouch in front of him, forcing him to look down at me. 

‘Please don’t ask me questions I can’t answer, Bucky.’ He doesn’t look away.

‘Please Steve. It’s important.’ I take a deep breath, look him right in the eye and work on my hunch. ‘The word Azzano mean anything to you?’ 

Again he stays silent, but I get what I need. I want to curl up somewhere dark where no one can touch me and call my Ma. I want to break something.

‘If they’re doing to those kids half of what they did to me, I’ll fucking kill them,’ I say softly, calmly, like we’re talking about the weather. 

‘You were at Azzano?’ The last of the blood leaves Steve’s face. ‘I had no idea.’

‘I’m not supposed to talk about it,’ I say mockingly, ‘but that’s what the experiments were, isn’t it? The US government’s answer to Azzano.’ 

I see the confirmation in his face. 

I turn to Peggy, who is perched on the arm of the settee. ‘You got any big surprises you wanna share with the group?’

‘Nothing that isn’t also extremely classified.’ She smiles. ‘Why don’t I fix us some dinner?’

‘I should go to the hospital.’

‘Why? What’s at the hospital?’

‘Pietro Maximoff.’ I meet Rogers’ shocked look steadily. ‘He survived, but only just. I want to make sure there’s eyes on him, in case they find out he’s alive.’

‘If they see you there you’ll just be giving them two for the price of one,’ Steve reasons. ‘I’ll go. They won’t shoot me a second time.’

‘ _ I’ll _ go,’ says Peggy. ‘They will absolutely shoot you a second time, because you’re a large target and have a shootable sort of face.’

‘I still don’t trust you,’ I tell her. ‘Besides, Pietro’s mother doesn’t know you.’

‘I’m very good with mothers.’ 

‘Let her go, Bucky. I trust her with my life.’ He gives her a goofy smile. ‘Even if you do think I have a shootable face.’

She kisses him on the cheek and disappears upstairs. When she re-emerges she’s in a drab tan-coloured dress and low shoes and her hair is in an old-fashioned style that almost manages to make her look plain. I give her the address of the hospital.

‘What are you going to tell Mrs Maximoff?’

‘I’ll tell her I’m your secretary and you sent me to check up on things. I’ll bring her some fruit, send your best wishes,’ she says, and as she talks her accent slips from polished, rounded vowels to a Brooklynite drawl. ‘You boys sit tight, now.’

I watch her go through the curtains. Even her walk changes. I give a low whistle and Rogers laughs. 

‘Yeah, she’s really something.’

‘Just about gives me whiplash.’ I root around in my jacket, now stained with three different kinds of blood, and pull out my squashed packet of cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’

‘Sure.’ 

I sit beside him and light mine, then light his with the end and pass it over. That seems to tickle him. 

‘My Ma got real funny about saving matches during the Depression. It just sort of stuck.’ He takes a drag and looks down at his shoulder with mild interest. ‘Y’know I can’t even feel it?’

‘Yeah? Must be nice.’ 

‘I shattered my femur on an operation in France. There was a bomb in the road. We drove right over it, flipped the Jeep.’ He pokes the bandage and it reddens. ‘I didn’t even know anything was wrong until I tried to walk out of there and my leg wouldn’t hold me up.’

I stare at my missing arm and think about them taking it off, inch by inch. ‘They took a different approach at Azzano.’

‘I’m going to get a drink, you want one?’

‘Mmh. I don’t care what, just add lots of ice.’ 

I notice for the first time how stuffy it is. The windows are open, but the thick curtains block any air and there’s no fan. I go around and turn off the lamps. The dark makes it seem cooler. 

‘You like sitting in the dark?’ Rogers asks when he comes back. 

‘Most of my work happens in the dark,’ I reply. 

He sits beside me, close enough that our knees bump. ‘Sorry.’

‘’S’ok, I’m the one who turned out the lights.’ 

He hands me my drink and I press it to my forehead. Condensation mingles with sweat and rolls down my face. 

‘I want to show you something.’

He fumbles for my arm and takes the drink from my hand, setting it down at our feet. Then he takes my hand and pulls it towards him. I can just make out the glint in his eyes as he guides my fingers into his hair.

‘What’re you-‘

‘D’you feel that?’ His hair is thick, a little longer in the back than is strictly fashionable. I bury my fingers in it and discover a ridge of scar running along the back of his head from the top of his ear. ‘It goes the whole way ‘round.’

‘They cut you open?’ 

‘The initial trials used drugs, something that was supposed to make us stop feeling pain, so we’d keep pushing past our limits. But then word got back about Azzano, and they decided they didn’t want to waste time anymore.’ His voice is flat. ‘They opened me up and cut at me, until I stopped being able to feel. I was awake the whole time, so they’d know if they got something wrong.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘They got things wrong.’

‘So you can’t feel this?’ I run my fingers through his hair.

‘I can still feel touch.’

‘But not this?’ I tug sharply. 

‘It doesn’t feel like anything. Just… a force.’ His hand brushes against mine as he traces his own scar. ‘My shoulder, right now… I can  _ feel _ the hole. Everywhere that has nerves can tell that there’s an absence of flesh, but it doesn’t hurt. Not at all.’

‘That sounds like something out of a cheap science fiction novel.’ 

‘What about you, Bucky?’ He shifts towards me. I can feel his breath on my neck. ‘What did they do to you?’

‘Everything.’ 

‘Bucky…’ 

It’s so quiet that I can tell we’re both holding our breath. I trail my fingers from the back of his head to the corner of his jaw and down his throat. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against my knuckles. I keep going until my hand is pressed against his chest. He catches it in his, twining our fingers together.

With the hand not holding mine, he fumbles at the straps on my prosthetic and it drops to the floor. He murmurs my name again as his arm goes around my waist and I’m pulled closer. I gasp as I feel his mouth move over the scarring on my collarbone and work its way up my neck. His lips brush my earlobe.

‘Is this ok?’ he whispers and I shiver.

‘Seems like it is,’ I reply. 

He kisses me. It’s an awful long time since I’ve kissed anyone, and I’m a little embarrassed that I might have forgotten how. 

‘What about Peggy?’ I want to kick myself for asking.

‘She understands.’

‘Understands what, exactly?’

He makes an irritated noise. ‘ You gonna talk the whole time?’

‘Sorry.’

‘She’s my girl, but we’re not…  _ together _ .’ He huffs. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘If you say so.’ Maybe I’m a little too quick to accept, but his mouth is on my jaw again.

‘I want…’ he says, one hand on my stomach, the other still holding mine in his hair.

‘Whatever you want, pal.’ 

He guides me until I’m lying on my back, then he presses himself on top of me. It’s a nice sort of weight, a safe weight. 

‘Is this ok?’ he asks again.

‘Fine by me.’ 

He kisses me again. This is definitely something I’d like to get used to. He pulls back and I can see an uncertain tilt to his shoulders, so I try kissing him for a change. He seems to like it, so I do it again. 

‘I, um, I might not be able to do this for very long,’ he says while I try out kissing other parts of his face. ‘I did lose a lot of blood, after all.’

‘Yeah, well, you feel like you’re gonna pass out, you give me a warning. I’ll make sure to roll you onto the floor before you crush me.’ He laughs, so I laugh too. ‘If I’d’ve known we would be doin’ this one day I never woulda lost track of you.’

‘Me neither.’ 

He kisses me, and kisses me, and kisses me. I get in one or two of my own for good measure. He puts his hands down my trousers for a while, which is a move I can get behind. 

Too soon, he pulls back.

‘Sorry. I’m a little light-headed.’ He switches on a lamp and starts; his bandage is soaked with blood. ‘Aw, shoot, Peggy’s gonna kill me.’

‘Why am I going to kill you?’ We freeze. The overhead light flicks on and she surveys the two of us; me on my back with my fly open, Steve hovering over me, both of us covered in his blood. ‘You’ve pulled your stitches already, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says meekly. 

‘I brought you both some clean clothes.’ She dumps an armful of bags on the table. ‘Let me go get my things.’

‘Wait, how’s Pietro?’ I ask, sitting up and covering my lap with a bloody cushion. ‘Did you see him?’

‘He’s in a coma. The doctors don’t know yet if he’ll pull through, but his mother is confident he’ll make it.’ 

‘If she says it, I’d believe it.’ The tips of my ears are hot. I can’t look at Steve, can’t meet Peggy’s eyes. I feel like a kid who just got caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar. ‘How was she?’

‘Impressive,’ she says with a smirk. She gestures to Steve. ‘Will you promise to sit still for five minutes?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Peggy sews Steve’s shoulder back up and gives us clothes to change into. She seems entirely unfazed by catching us with our trousers down. She doesn’t say anything when he insists on putting my arm back on for me, or when he gives me a goofy puppy-eyed smile. Not even when I give him a goofy smile right back. 

I’m going through shirts way too fast today. Stitch all the shirts I’ve wrecked together and you could just about sail a boat. The one Peggy gives me is brand-new, a shade or two off being white. My trousers are fine but she’s brought me new ones anyway, so I put them on. There’s a jacket, too, both in a soft charcoal grey. Steve’s got something similar, a little lighter, and a simple red and blue tie. She hands me a gaudy green number with a wide maroon stripe.

‘Not that I don’t appreciate all this, but I oughta get back to work,’ I say, awkwardly looping the tie around my neck. ‘Wanda Maximoff is still missing.’

‘What are you proposing to do about it?’ 

‘I’m going to talk to Parker’s kid, see if he’s scrounged up anything else. It’s not much, but at least it’s a start.’ She bats my hands away and starts in on a double Windsor.

‘You don’t mean Richard Parker?’ Steve frowns. ‘I didn’t know he had a son.’

‘He works at the  _ Daily Bugle _ . Good kid.’ I give him a look. ‘Say, Steve, I can’t say I like it that you seem to know every player in this game.’ 

‘He worked with Howard Stark. Military science division.’ He gestures to himself. ‘He was, ah, involved. A little.’

‘I know Richard’s brother Benjamin. He was in my unit.’ I turn to Peggy. ‘This guy happen to give you the keys to his car as well?’

‘Unfortunately not. You may, however, borrow mine.’ She dangles a set of keys in front of my nose.

‘Let me guess, you want to come?’ I sigh. ‘And you’ll be driving?’

‘Naturally.’ She slips on a pair of red-rimmed sunglasses. ‘Steve, you ought to stay here.’

‘That’s not happening,’ he says, jaw setting in a stubborn line. ‘I’m sick of just following orders.’

Peggy rolls her eyes. ‘Was he this insufferable when you were children?’

‘Oh no, he’s much worse now.’ 

‘Just for that, you can sit in the back seat,’ Steve huffs at me.

‘No, darling, if you’re going to come you’ll sit in the back and you’ll keep out of sight,’ she says sternly.

‘Aw, Peg, you know I can barely fit back there.’ 

‘It’s that, or stay behind.’

Steve huffs like a broody sow but he follows Peggy out the door. She locks up behind us and we pile into her little Studebaker. Peggy seems like the kind of woman who has the propensity to drive recklessly and at speed. Thankfully she keeps that inclination a secret for now. 

The other two refuse to wait in the car, so the three of us trek up to the  _ Bugle _ ’s reception area together. 

‘I’m afraid our office is closed,’ the receptionist says, eyeing my face with an alarmed expression.

‘I’m looking for Peter Parker. He might be expecting me.’

‘And whom may I say is here for him?’

‘Tell him it’s his old pal Bucky.’ I grin at her. I hope it helps, because it hurts like hell. 

She gets up and walks primly into the office. I drum my fingers on the desk. Peggy shoots me a stern look and I wave my fingers at her. 

After several minutes the receptionist returns and sits at her desk. Peter comes bounding through the door like a drunk sheepdog. 

‘Bucky! Hey, pal, how’d-‘ he sees my face and pulls up short. ‘Aaaaaaaaahhh…’

‘Shut your mouth, kid, before a fly moves in and the spiders follow.’ It’s something my mother used to tell me. ‘How’s about we swing by that diner you like so much?’

‘Yeah, yeah, sure thing. Let me grab my coat.’ He disappears back into the office and reappears with a sand-coloured trench over one arm. ‘Gee, Bucky, your face looks even worse than the last time I saw you.’

‘Thanks, kid.’

‘So you, uh, you seem like you’ve been up to plenty.’

‘Let’s save it ‘til we’re sitting down, alright kid?’

‘Sure, sure.’ He falls uncharacteristically silent as we walk to the diner.

The four of us squeeze into a booth, Steve and I against the wall and Peter and Peggy in the aisle. She smiles at him and his whole face flushes crimson.

‘Keep it together, kid,’ I tell him. ‘You learned anything since I saw you last?’

‘Nothing new. That tip I give you work out?’ He puts on a surprisingly cunning reporter face. I decide to play along. 

‘And how. Might be I’ve got a scoop for you, if you can produce another tip like that.’ 

‘Yeah?’ He pulls out a notebook and pen. ‘We on the record now?’

‘Not just yet.’

‘C’mon, Bucky. It would really get my editor off my back if I could tell him what I’m working on.’

‘What happened to personal favours, huh?’ 

‘They’ve just been on my case, is all.’ 

‘Who? The guys at the  _ Bugle _ ?’ 

‘Of course.’ He smiles somewhere just left of my ear. ‘Who else?’

‘Kid, if somebody’s giving you the shakedown…’ I trail off and let it hang there. 

He doesn’t take it. Instead he turns to Peggy and says, ‘I’m Peter Parker. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’

‘Likewise.’ 

‘Bucky sure seems to know a lot of beautiful women, don’t you Bucky?’ 

‘Yes. I was cursed.’ 

‘Hell of a curse.’ 

‘I knew your father,’ Steve says, because Peggy is starting to look a little violent.

‘My father?’ Peter gapes.

‘What’d I tell you about shutting your pie-hole, kid?’ I grumble. I can feel the spotlight of Peter’s hero worship swinging away from me and truth be told I’m a little jealous.

‘He was a good man,’ Steve tells him, but I’m pretty sure he’s lying. Even from across the table I can see the corners of his face tighten. 

Good men don’t cut into healthy brains. They don’t take sweet, skinny boys from Brooklyn and turn them into men who can’t feel when they’ve been shot. Peter doesn’t notice the lie. He looks at Steve like he’s never seen anything better. I’m not going to be the one to tell the kid any different. 

‘How’d you know him?’ 

Steve seems to be choosing his words carefully. ‘I knew him through the military. Not well, but… he was a good man.’

Peter sits back, staring at his hands with wide eyes. I squeeze his shoulder, then stare at Steve. He stares back. I motion to Peter with my eyes. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I glare at him. He sets his jaw and glares back.

‘What?’ Peter asks, expression confused. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t like the thought of you being caught up in all this, kid,’ Steve says. 

‘You don’t think he deserves to know?’ 

‘I think he deserves to stay alive.’

‘I like being alive,’ Peter interjects, ‘but also, y’know, I’m right here. It kinda feels like you fellas have forgotten.’

‘Sorry, pal.’ I rub my eyes and immediately regret it. Pain blossoms from my bruised socket. ‘It’s been a helluva day. Steve’s right, though. I shouldn’t get you caught up in more than you can handle.’

‘You don’t know what I can handle,’ he says defensively. 

‘Neither do you, so don’t push your luck. People could be after you already, even if you don’t wanna admit it. I want you to stick on finding the Maximoff girl, forget about the rest of it.’ I manage to sound firmer than I feel. ‘I mean it. Your uncle-‘

‘ _ My uncle would kill you if he knew what you were getting me mixed up in _ . you tell me that every time you come looking for tips.’ He slouches sulkily in his seat. ‘Alright.’

‘Thanks, kid.’ I give Steve a warning look. ‘So, have you found anything?’

‘I know you found Pietro. I was just bluffing earlier.’ He sits up again, grinning at me. ‘I got the word that a teenager had been found shot outside the building I told you about. Wasn’t difficult to put it all together.’

‘Congratulations. Learn anything I don’t know?’

‘Apparently there’s been a couple of weird-looking guys sniffing around the building. Oh, and one of my leads thinks they remember seeing a panel van driving away from the alley behind it…’ he flips back through his notepad, ‘three days ago. They remembered because they’re pretty sure they heard a gunshot and thought it was the van backfiring, then when they heard about someone being found shot they put it together.’ 

‘That fits.’ A thought blossoms like mould in the back of my mind. ‘Mrs Maximoff came to me to investigate her children’s disappearance three days ago. While this is happening, Pietro is shot and left for dead, and his killer or killers clear out of their hiding place. Almost like they knew I was about to come looking.’

‘Do you think they were already watching you?’ Peggy asks. 

‘They might have been watching Mrs Maximoff. Although if they were worried about her going to a detective, they might have done something to reassure her earlier. Gotten one of the twins to write her another letter, maybe.’ 

‘Would they have been capable of doing such a thing, given what was being done to them?’

I consider. ‘Apart from the bullet holes, Pietro seemed healthy enough. He’d have been dead, otherwise.’ 

‘But if he was a healthy subject, then why-‘ 

‘Maybe he was causing trouble. Or maybe he was unsuccessful in… other ways.’ The memory of screams flash through my mind and I shiver. Steve squeezes my knee under the table, making me jump. ‘I think I need to spend some more time chasing my tail, if you catch my drift.’

‘Mr Barnes, one of your tails just put a hole in Steve,’ Peggy says sternly. ‘Do you really think it’s wise to try and follow them?’

‘Whoa, what?’ Peter looks up, wide-eyed. ‘Did you get shot?’

‘Only a little.’ Steve looks embarrassed. 

‘Listen, Carter, I’ve been endangering myself for this case long before you waltzed in,’ I say as sternly as I can manage, ‘and I’m not about to let you tell me what I can and can’t go getting myself into.’

‘I’m quite sure I don’t care what you do, Mr Barnes,’ she says primly, ‘but I’m afraid Steve does, and given it’s my job to look out for Steve, I’m requesting that you consider looking out for yourself.’

‘It’s not your job to look out for me,’ Steve grumbles and scrunches down in his seat exactly the same way Peter was doing earlier. For a military man he is apparently capable of terrible posture. 

Peggy gives him a withering look. ‘You should consider yourself very lucky that it is. Now you’re going to go with Mr Parker here back to the  _ Bugle _ office and behave yourself, while I go with Mr Barnes.’

‘Like hell you are,’ I say at the same time Steve says ‘Like hell I am.’

Peggy gives us both equally stern looks. ‘This is not a negotiation, gentlemen. Peter, do you think you can keep Steve out of trouble for a few hours?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says quickly, hands raised in a defensive gesture. 

‘Come along, then.’ She jerks her head at me and I slide grumbling from the booth. I knew she was trouble from the moment I saw her, and now I’m sure the dame’s going to get me killed. 

She kisses Steve on the cheek and does that nice walk of hers out of the diner. Steve and I shake hands, holding on a little too long. 

‘Look after the kid,’ I say softly. ‘He deserves the whole story, if and when it’s ever safe to give.’

I give Peter the number for Crystal Joe’s and tell him to call there if he finds anything, then I give him another warning about keeping his nose out of trouble and follow after Peggy. 

‘I’ll drive,’ she says crisply. ‘You just tell me where we’re headed.’

I give her the address of the building where I found Pietro. I figure if Peter says there’s people hanging around there, then it’s a good enough place to start. 


	5. His Girl

We’re silent as we drive across the bridge. I stick my head out the window like a dog to feel the breeze, the wind stinging the cuts on my face. Peggy makes some huffy British noise beside me. I howl at the city, my city, the skyline a grey haze in the summer heat.

‘Honestly,’ Peggy tuts. I pull my head back in and leer at her. 

‘You got a problem with me, Your Majesty?’

‘No, I-‘ she sighs. ‘I’m worried about Steve, that’s all. I don’t know if you can help him.’

‘What’s the deal with you too anyway?’ 

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. He told me you’re his girl.’ Her face softens a little. ‘If that’s true, then you don’t seem too concerned with him fooling around on you. Especially with… well, you know.’

She smiles. It’s a nice smile. I’d like to have someone smile like that about me one day.

‘Steve and I, we love each other. Very much. He’s done a great many foolish things for me, and I’ve gotten into more than my fair share of scrapes for him. He has every intention of marrying me one day.’ She slows the car as we pass into the Garment District, craning her neck to read street signs. I can’t read her expression behind her dark glasses. ‘But we want different things. I met someone else, someone who makes me happy, and Steve… well, he’s still hung up on some boy he’s loved since childhood.’

I feel suddenly boneless, like my skeleton’s up and jitter-bugged out of my body. Peggy sighs exasperatedly like she hasn’t just pulled the rug out from under me and takes off her cheaters.

‘James, dear, you’re going to have to give me directions.’ 

I point the way silently. I need a drink. I needed a drink hours ago, so I’m up to needing the one several drinks after that. Peggy pulls the car over.

‘Is this close enough?’

‘Huh?’ I reply articulately.

‘I hardly think it’s wise to park right out front. Can we walk from here?’ She looks at me impatiently.

‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’ Get your head in the game, Bucky Barnes. 

She puts her glasses back on as we get out of the car. I pull my hat down low, adjust my arm so it looks like I’ve got my hand in my pocket. Peggy takes my elbow, pressing herself to my side. 

‘What’re you doing?’ I ask, unnerved.

‘Just play along, dear,’ she says in a hokey Brooklyn accent. 

We stroll along like a couple of lovers on the boardwalk. Peggy turns heads. My step is in danger of developing a spring.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Barnes? You’ve gone a bit pink.’

‘It’s just an awful long time since I had a nice dame on my arm, is all,’ I reply with a leer. 

‘A handsome boy like you?’ She squeezes my arm, digging her nails in. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Well, now that you mention it, it has been a strange couple of days in that regard.’ We’re almost level with the building now. I steer Peggy gently onto a stoop and pretend like I’m sniffing her hair. ‘There’s one of those goons across the street. You oughta kiss me, really make it look like we’re a couple.’

‘I ought to sock you on the jaw,’ she says with a wide, flirty smile. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses herself against me. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Just watching the building. He doesn’t seem to have noticed us.’ She smells amazing. ‘Carter, you smell amazing.’

‘You smell like blood and cheap aftershave.’ 

‘Say it like you mean it.’

‘Has he moved yet?’

‘Y’know, there’s only so long we can keep up this pretence without you actually kissing me.’ I’m close enough to see her eyes flash behind her dark glasses. ‘Wait, there’s another one.’

She moves her hips in some way that means we’re closer than ever but now she’s looking back out down the street. ‘They’re just talking.’

‘Are you wearing a thigh holster?’

‘Yes. It’s supposed to be undetectable.’

‘Well this close, it’s detectable.’ The goons nod at each other and the first one starts off around the corner. ‘Looks like that was the changing of the guard.’

Peggy jumps back and slaps me hard across the face.

‘What the hell was that for?’ I yell.

‘You know what that was for!’ she cries in her Brooklyn accent. ‘You’re a cad, Jimmy.’

The sunglasses goon turns to look at us with vague interest, then his gaze slides elsewhere. Peggy looks at me expectantly. 

‘Aw, hell, baby, I didn’t mean nothin’,’ I say in a rush, trying to look contrite. 

‘I’ve had it up to here with you! We’re through!’ she stomps off in the direction of the first goon. I follow a few steps behind, calling out apologies. Goon Two ignores us.

When we round the corner Goon One is halfway up the block, walking briskly. We drop the argument and Peggy slips my hand out of my pocket and takes it. We follow quietly. Goon One only looks back once, and Peggy immediately leans against me and giggles. He looks right past us. 

‘You’re gonna give a fella whiplash,’ I say through gritted teeth. 

‘I thought you could handle anything, Mr Barnes.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever said that. We should split up, have one of us keep an eye on the building.’ 

‘I rather think there’s safety in numbers, don’t you?’ 

‘Scared, Carter?’ She elbows me in the ribs and I hiss. ‘You’re awful mean, you know that?’

‘Well you know how to get on my good side, don’t you?’ She gives me a deadly look over the rim of her glasses. ‘Do as I say.’

We stick to our tail. Goon One gets on a trolley, which we only just manage to catch. We travel several stops, where he gets off and makes a payphone call. Then we trail him to the subway and get on a train. When he gets off we’re almost on the border of Queens. 

‘I think we must be close now,’ Peggy says softly. I can feel the straps of my arm tighten as she tugs at it. ‘Are you armed?’

‘Of course.’ I pat the butt of my pistol where it rests on my hip. ‘Do you think it’s going to come to that?’

‘You’ve been shot at more times this week than I have, James. You tell me.’ 

Goon One turns into an alley. I tell Peggy to stay put and stick my head in. There’s a clattering of footsteps above me, and I look up to see our mark disappearing up a fire escape. I head back to Peggy, who’s leaning against the wall. I place my hand beside her head, pressing against her. I can’t tell if she’s too happy about it, but she’s the one who started this game in the first place.

‘He’s in that building there.’ She turns her head slightly to see. 

‘It looks empty from down here.’

‘So did the last one.’ I squint up at the upper stories. ‘There, fourth floor: the windows are blacked out, not just boarded up.’

‘I’ll take the fire escape, you take the inside,’ she says, breath a sweet whisper on my neck. ‘We see what we can see, shoot our way out if we have to.’

‘I ain’t looking to get myself killed. We can watch and wait from down here a while, see what we can scope out from the outside.’ 

‘Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. You take this side, I’ll scoot round the back.’ 

I nod and she disappears into the alley. I give it a few moments, then stick my head back in just in time to see Carter reach the top of the fire escape. I swear under my breath and wave my arm at her. Carter points downward: there’s a side entrance hidden behind a pile of garbage. I put together a nice long list of expletives that I can’t say in front of a lady and test the handle; it’s locked, but the frame has rotted. It doesn’t take much heft to bust my way in, although it’s hardly the most subtle approach. 

Dust motes sparkle in the light from the door. I close it behind me and everything is the charcoal grey of near total darkness, pierced here and there with knives of sickly yellow light from gaps in the boarded windows. I can hear my heart thumping against my ribs. I wonder when I got that slight wheeze in my chest. If there are people above me, I can’t hear them. I say a little prayer that they can’t hear me either and switch on my flashlight. 

The floor is covered in dust and rat droppings, old newspapers and the rusting corpse of a desiccated printing press. My torch illuminates pre-war headlines. A rickety staircase wraps around the trajectory of a freight elevator. 

I examine the elevator. Its floor is less dusty than everything else; the cables and controls look like they’ve been recently repaired. There are deep gouges in the building’s floor leading to it, as if something heavy had been dragged there. 

I take the stairs.

The second floor has a few more sticks of ruined equipment; the third, empty offices. The torchlight gleams ghostly on fractured glass and the withered stump of a potted plant at the end of the hall. 

The staircase stops abruptly, top step hanging over nothingness. I switch off the torch and feel around above my head; there’s a crack of light, a square outline just above me. I test it with my fingers and it gives, just a little. 

I curse Peggy Carter with another long line of words I would be far too afraid to say to her face and test my weight on the railing. I can just reach the side of the elevator shaft if I stretch out my arm. I hoist myself up carefully, until I’m balanced on top of the rail, head ducked to avoid the ceiling. 

The angle still isn’t quite right. I need to be able to lean back. Swearing again, I jam my prosthetic arm into the metal grate of the elevator shaft. Anchoring my weight on it, I push on the trapdoor just a touch, until I can see into the room above. 

There are four pairs of feet, all apparently male, in black trousers and black boots or oxfords. A pair of heavy metal objects are bolted to the floor; probably chairs like the one from the building where I found Pietro. Like the one in Azzano. 

I have no idea where Carter is. If she’s not waiting out of sight on the fire escape like a good girl, we’re going to have words. 

There’s an argument happening above me. One of the goons in oxfords is pacing.

‘Do you have any idea how furious he is?’ says a voice I recognise: Cigarette, from the graving dock. 

‘Don’t pretend you know him so well,’ Oxfords spits. ‘You think yer gonna keep getting special treatment after getting yerself knocked out? We’re all expendable to him.’

‘You shut yer mouth!’ The feet are toe-to-toe now. ‘He’s gonna be here any minute, you really wanna go around talking like that?’ 

‘Maybe I do! Maybe I’m sick of this whole game!’ 

Cigarette’s voice drops dangerously low. ‘Are you?’ 

‘Maybe,’ Oxfords says, faltering. 

‘You either are or you aren’t, Jones. So tell me, have you had enough?’ There’s a pause; cigarette ash drops onto the toe of Jones’s oxfords. He shakes it off. Cigarette keeps purring at him. ‘You  _ seem _ like you’ve had enough. You’ve made mistakes, more of ‘em than me. I’m sure if you wanted to quit, he’d be happy to let you go. Just say the word.’

Jones shakes his foot again. ‘I think- I think I do wanna leave. I won’t tell nobody nothin’, I’m just… this ain’t the job I thought it was gonna be.’

‘Of course not.’ There’s a click, like a hammer being drawn back.

‘What’re you-‘ 

Jones steps back. His feet turn, like he’s going to run, and there’s a muffled gunshot. His body thumps on top of the trapdoor and I’m thrown off balance, landing awkwardly on the step with my wooden arm yanked back over my head. 

I struggle to my feet and yank my arm free. The crack of light goes dark and something hot and wet drips onto my face. A shudder goes through my body as I move onto a lower step to avoid it. 

I’m considering next moves when I hear movement in the building below me. The elevator rattles into life and I throw myself back against the opposite rail, pressing myself into the shadows. The light-filled cage rises up past the floors below me, draws level, sails through the floor above; it contains three figures, and two of them rip a scream from my throat that I barely smother in time. 

I step back, fall, roll down half the steps before I get on my feet and then I’m running, barely stopping myself from falling again, running until I’m in the alley in the light and I finally let myself fall, and the scream comes up again like vomit. Suddenly Carter is there, her little fist jammed across my mouth. She drags me to my feet and away, her palm the only thing stopping all the demons from bursting out of me and eating us whole. 

We’re two blocks away when she finally releases me, shoving me against a building. The wall feels like a metal slab, the edge of each brick a scalpel looking for a way in. The sidewalk sucks at my feet like the mud-that-isn’t-mud of a battlefield, the mud that’s mixed with blood and viscera and gunpowder. The faces in the elevator leer at me, sticking their fingers through my ribs to peel bits off my organs.

Carter slaps me, twice, with the back of her hand. The world comes into focus again. The sidewalk is just concrete. The wall is just a wall. The faces that stare at us from the street aren’t the faces of predators.

‘Come on, Carter. You can hit harder than that.’ I touch my cheek gingerly; it smarts, but the pain is already fading.

‘I wasn’t trying to hurt you, James,’ she says softly. ‘You’d gone somewhere far away, that’s all.’

‘Yeah.’ I rub my hand over my face; it comes away wet. I look at the blood on my palm, the blood of a dead man called Jones. ‘There’s a body in there. We oughta call someone.’

‘Is that why you-’

‘No.’ My mind shies away from picturing them again, so I think of the third figure. ‘The elevator, there was- shit, they got a kid in there.’

‘Was it Wanda?’ Carter asks sharply.

‘No, another girl.’ I swear and punch the wall. The skin on my knuckles ruptures and I swear again. ‘We have to go back.’

‘James, you can’t.’ 

‘Carter, you don’t understand. Those men-’ I look at my hand. It’s shaking. Huh. ‘I know them. Knew them. During the war.’

‘They were soldiers?’

‘No, they- I was captured. They were there, they… they tortured me.’ I clutch at the spot where my flesh used to be, fingers scrabbling against the wood. ‘They’re supposed to be  _ dead _ . I don’t know why they’re here, or how, but I- I’m done.’

‘Well, I’m not. I’m going to call the police.’ Her tone is gentle but firm. ‘Let’s find a phone booth, shall we?’

I nod slowly. We walk another block until we find one. Carter adjusts my arm for me; it’s been hanging limply, bouncing as I walk. One of the straps broke when I fell. I shrug her off and pull the whole thing out of my sleeve, slinging it over my shoulder. 

She makes some calls while I wait outside the booth. Carter gets increasingly agitated, finally slamming the phone back into its cradle and sliding the door open so sharply I’m worried it’s going to jump off its tracks and hit me in the face.

‘They’re not coming,’ she says, almost yelling.

‘What d’you mean they’re not coming? Did you tell them there’s been a murder?’ 

‘Of course I bloody well told them that, it was the first bloody thing I said,’ she snapped, ‘and they were all ready to bring the cavalry until I told them the address. Then that- that- well, he told me they’d send a car to do a drive-by! A drive-by! When I told him that was hardly an appropriate level of response, the little bastard hung up on me!’

She looks so irate that I almost want to laugh. Almost.

‘What’re we going to do then?’ I ask, looking back in the direction of the building.

‘A friend of mine is coming to watch the building. She’ll let us know if anyone comes or goes. You’d best call your friend at the paper.’ She moves out of the way so I can get to the receiver. ‘I do wish you’d let me go up there.’

‘You think anyone’s gonna make a fuss if we end up dead?’ I shake my head at her and start fishing for change. ‘I keep telling myself I oughta play this smart.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘Damned if I know. ‘Scuse my language.’ I turn away from her and dial the number for the  _ Bugle _ office. 

‘Bucky?’ Peter answers when I’m transferred through. There’s a scuffling sound and a cry of protest, then another voice on the line.

‘Bucky? It’s Steve. Where’s Peggy? Is she alright? Are you alright?’ 

‘Put the kid back on,’ I reply.

‘Not until you tell me you’re both alright,’ Steve growls at me. 

‘We’re both fine, you great lout. Now put Peter on, I need to speak to him.’ Steve grumbles but he hands the phone back.

‘You there, kid?’

‘Yeah, I’m here.’

‘That building you told me about, and the other one where I found the Maximoff kid? I need you to find out who owns them. I need to know everything about the owners and I need to know it now, alright?’ I scratch at my shoulder. ‘But be careful, ok kid?’

‘yeah, of course, no problem.’ There’s silence while Peter writes something down. ‘What am I supposed to do with your friend here?’

‘Tell him he’d better sit tight or Carter’ll beat the stuffing out of him.’

‘He’s not gonna like that.’

‘He’s a big boy, he’ll be alright.’ I sigh and rub my eyes. ‘Put him on.’

There’s another scuffle and Steve says, ‘Tell Peggy she’s not the boss of me.’

‘We need to talk. A proper talk, about exactly what they did to us. Can you do that?’ 

He must hear something in my voice because he replies, ‘Sure, Bucky. I can do that.’

‘Good.’

He sighs. ‘We’re good men, Bucky. Both of us. Despite what they did.’

‘If you say so. Let’s meet back at Carter’s place.’

I ring off and turn to find Carter staring at me. 

‘What?’ I bark.

‘Do you mean it? Are you done?’ She crosses her arms. ‘Are you going to let Mr Parker do your dirty work and put himself in harm’s way or are you going to confront your past head-on?’ 

‘I came within spitting distance of my past and just about pissed myself. I ain’t proud of it, but I also ain’t too proud to say I’m terrified.’ I drag my hand through my hair. ‘If it weren’t for those kids I’d start running and I’d never stop.’

‘But you’re not.’

‘No, I’m not. But I’ve been in over my head from the beginning. Which is why your boyfriend and I need to have a nice, detailed chat about some things our government doesn’t want us talking about.’ 

A car pulls up a little way down the block and flashes its lights. Carter blows a kiss at it. 

‘That’s my friend. We can go now.’ 

‘I hate leaving that kid up there.’

‘I know. But there’s nothing we can do about it for the moment.’ 

We get in the car and she starts heading to the bridge.

‘Wait. I want to go back to the bar Pietro used to go to, see if there’s anything new I can get there. Maybe find out just how many kids they might have taken.’ 

‘Alright, Just lead the way.’


	6. The Whole Truth

Even the light spilling out of the Gin Hole’s windows looks dirty. I tell Peggy to wait in the car with my arm. She doesn’t seem like she’s going to go for it until I point out I look far too beat up on to be walking around with a beautiful dame in tow. Maybe she agrees, or maybe she just can’t see the point of arguing. If I pressed her I might get dangerously close to finding out what she really thinks of me, and that’s something I can do without knowing. 

It’s hotter inside the bar than out, the air thick with smoke that smells like stale reefer. I avoid the bar this time, sitting instead at a rickety table in the corner where I can watch both doors. I figure I shouldn’t draw too many gazes in a place like this but I’ve barely settled in before my old friend sits down across from me. 

‘Thought I warned you last time,’ he says. His voice is real nice and low, and I’m pretty sure from the way he’s sitting that he’s got a gun pointing at my particulars.

‘Kid’s still missing,’ I say calmly, like I get guns pointed at my privates all the time. ‘Was hoping maybe you’d remembered something useful.’

‘Why don’t you get out of here before I plug you?’ 

‘Why don’t you tell me what goes on in the back room before I tell the cops about all the reefer in here?’ 

He sneers. ‘The cops ain’t gonna come sniffing around here.’ 

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’ I lean across the table and he tenses. Easy, Barnes. ‘You got protection? What for, agreeing to run illegal card games from your back room and selling kids to mad scientists on the side?’ 

‘I never-’ he starts, then clenches his teeth. ‘Alright, look, I let some guys use the back room sometimes. They pay me for it, I don’t ask questions.’

‘Tell me about the kid.’

‘What about him?’

‘Don’t get smart with me now, it’s too late for that,’ I say like I’m not the one likely to get his bits blown off. ‘What did you do to him?’

‘Nothing, I swear. He used to come here a lot, him and his weird sister, then he stopped coming. One of the guys told me they’d caught a cheat, I put two and two together.’ He scratches his jaw, eyes darting around the room. ‘I asked them about the kid, ‘cause I was concerned, right?’

‘Sure, I’ll bet.’

‘Shut up. They promised me they hadn’t done anything to him. Not on my turf, anyhow. Alls they said was that they were giving him a way to settle what he owed.’

‘And what was that? You didn’t ask any follow up questions?’

‘Would you, in my position?’ He meets my gaze for a brief moment. 

‘I guess we’ll never know.’ I drum my fingers on the table, real casual. ‘Tell me about the others.’

‘What others?’ His eyes won’t meet mine. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Like hell you don’t. For what they must be paying you, they shoulda hired a better liar.’ I lean across the table and drop my voice low and real quiet-like. ‘Do you know what they’re doing to those kids, or do you just not care?’

‘Like I said, I don’t ask questions. I think it’s about time you left, anyhow.’

‘I reckon we’re just getting started.’ I’m about to ask him again to show me the back room when someone picks me up by the back of the neck. ‘Aw, hell, I thought you and me were pals.’

‘Here’s some advice, pal.’ The bartender punches me in the gut and spits on me. ‘Don’t come back here again.’

His goon gives me the bum rush. I hit the pavement and roll into a fire hydrant. I lie there for a bit, squinting up at the sky and trying to see some stars through the smog. Everything hurts. How long has everything hurt for? A while, I guess. I’ve really been through the ringer.

There’s the tapping of heels and a pair of nice legs appears near my head. I look up to see Carter standing over me.

‘I’ve really been through the ringer,’ I tell her. 

‘Get up, James.’ She says curtly. I do as she says. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘They’re selling kids outta the back room. They go in, get themselves into trouble on the card tables, and our nice friends in black swoop in and offer to solve all their problems.’ I prop myself up against a lamp post. ‘Thought I was gonna get more when they threw me out.’ 

‘I’m beginning to think you like getting beaten up.’ She smiles at me. ‘Get in the car.’

I slouch gingerly along behind her. 

***

Steve is pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the floor of Carter’s borrowed kitchen. She’s leaning against the countertop, and Peter and I are sitting at the table in the charming little breakfast nook. Lamplight valiantly attempts to provide the illusion of full morning in the grey of early dawn. I keep frightening myself every time I catch my reflection in the silverware. 

‘Tell me again,’ Steve says, wheeling around and looking at me with a tortured expression. 

‘I don’t think you wanna hear it.’ 

‘Please, just one more time.’ He yanks at his hair. His face looks grey and taut.

‘Alright, alright.’ I take a deep breath. ‘My unit was captured in ‘43. We were there about six months before the Russians sprung us, but the Nazis ran experiments on us before they could.’

‘What kind of experiments?’ Carter prompts, and I realise I’ve stopped talking.

‘Pharmaceuticals, mostly. They were giving their own soldiers bennies to keep ‘em going, only they figured they could do better. They wanted soldiers who didn’t have to sleep, barely had to eat, would keep following orders until they dropped.’ 

My stump is itching like crazy. I clamp my hand down on it and swallow back bile. ‘They tried a few different drug combinations, radiation, whatever they could think of. Half the men in my unit died in that camp, and half those that survived went crazy from the withdrawals when they got back. I was- I was strong, could take a lot, so they took my arm off a bit at a time to see if they could make it heal faster or regrow the tissue.’

‘Bucky…’ Steve says softly. He crouches in front of me and takes my hand. I realise I’ve torn through my shirt, clawing at the place where my arm used to be. ‘I’m sorry, Bucky.’

‘You and me both, pal.’ I take a deep, shuddering breath that sounds almost like a sob. ‘Anyhow, when we finally got rescued the government wanted to keep pokin’ at me, figure out if the Nazis got further along than they did. I told ‘em to go to hell and they told me they’d leave me alone so long as I kept my trap shut.’

‘And the men who did this to you are here? You’re sure?’ He rubs soothing circles into my palm. I close my eyes and nod.

‘Johann Schmidt and Arnim Zola. Nazi scientists. The brass told me they’d been killed when our soldiers entered the camp, but it was them. I know it.’ 

‘Why are they here? Why now?’ Peter is making notes, scribbling furiously on a pad of yellow paper. ‘And why are they following you, Captain Rogers?’

‘They must know I was a subject.’ He sighs. ‘Our government did the same thing, gave Benzedrine to soldiers to keep them awake and fighting for longer, but they wanted to improve the formula. They must make us Brooklyn boys tough, because most of the other subjects couldn’t handle it.’

He squeezes my hand and I drag my eyes open to look at him. At some point the sun has slid up properly, and through my puffy eye the world seems dreamy and golden. Steve is practically glowing. 

‘So why are they taking people now?’ Peter asks. ‘It doesn’t seem like they’re working for the military.’

‘Maybe they were,’ Peggy says. ‘They wouldn’t be the only German scientists the American government has made a deal with.’

‘They might’ve gone rogue, started doing their own experiments,’ I agree. 

‘The government wouldn’t just let them go,’ Steve says, that belligerent look on his face. ‘They’d be in prison.’

‘So maybe they escaped,’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know how they’re here, but it’s them. Or you sayin’ you don’t believe me?’

Steve goes a shade paler and shakes his head. ‘Course I do, Buck. Don’t have to make sense to be true.’

‘What do we do next, Bucky?’ Peter interrupts, looking at me expectantly. 

‘Why you askin’ me?’

‘This  _ is _ your investigation,’ he points out.

‘I’m not even the third-most competent person in this room right now.’ I groan and drop Steve’s hand. ‘Alright. Steve, you and Carter go to the Carlyle and do some snooping. They like the two of you there better than they like me. I’m going to go to the hospital, see if Pietro’s awake. Peter, go to Crystal Joe’s Automat across from my office and ask for Dot. Tell her I sent you, she’ll know what to say.’

Peggy produces another clean shirt and shows me where the bathroom is. I stand in front of the mirror for a while, bare-chested, and try to find myself in the monster staring back at me. 

The monster’s face is black and red and purple all down one side, like the cracked half of a hideous Halloween mask. The other side is gaunt and grey. Its eyes are bright, feverish. An afterthought of stubble sweeps across the lower half of everything. I can’t find myself in there at all and I make the monster grin, baring nicotine-yellow teeth. 

There’s a knock on the door and I jump, spinning around.

‘It’s just me,’ Steve’s voice says softly. ‘Can I come in?’

‘I suppose,’ I reply, voice a little high-pitched. 

He sidles into the room and comes right up to me, resting his hands on my hips. It feels like his touch is burning its way into my skin.

‘Oh,’ I say, then he kisses me.

We’re pressed against the sink in the cramped room and time is stretching out like molasses. His hands are on my hips and his tongue is in my mouth and the back of my head hits the mirror and I laugh into his mouth and it sounds a little mad, and his hands… 

He pulls away and I whimper, trying to pull him back to me, but he leans against the door. I follow, pressing into him, and he puts a hand between us and shakes his head. 

‘Sorry, I got carried away,’ he says, like he means it. ‘It’s just nice to have you so close.’

‘Not close enough,’ I growl, and press my face into the crook of his neck. Steve laughs and wraps his arms around me. He smells wrong, like sour sweat and antiseptic and suddenly I’m on the other side of the room again trying to hold on to my last meal. 

He looks at me sadly, like he understands. ‘You and me, pal. I reckon we’re the only two folks alive who really knows what the other’s been through. I don’t plan to let go of that, not ever.’ 

‘You’re a real romantic,’ I sneer. 

‘I’m a sap, and I know it,’ he says, and reaches out to take my hand, ‘but you have to admit, it’s almost like we’re made for each other.’

‘Made in labs by two-bit army sadists.’ I’m being mean. I don’t know why I’m being mean.

‘Still.’ He stares at me and tilts his head to the side and bites his lip. ‘Dammit, I really want to kiss you again.’

‘What time is it?’ I ask.

He blinks owlishly. ‘A little before eight, I think.’

‘I should go. To the hospital, I mean. I’ve got work to do.’ I huff a laugh. ‘I’m on retainer.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘Like Hell. I need you and Carter at the hotel.’ I can’t meet his gaze. ‘Or maybe I don’t. I feel like I’m just sending us around in circles, but I still oughta be gone already.’

‘If that’s where you think I should be, then that’s where I’ll go,’ he murmurs. 

I nod jerkily and pull on the shirt Peggy gave me. My hand shakes as I try to do the buttons up. Steve steps forward and swats my hand away. Slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration, he buttons my shirt for me. He starts at the bottom, pinkie fingers grazing against my stomach, and slowly does each one until his fingertips are resting against my clavicle. His smell is nauseating but I don’t want to push him away. He brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth and then he’s gone, and I’m all alone in a stranger’s bathroom with half an erection and the taste of bile in my mouth.

***

The city is already hellishly hot as I slump in the back of a cab to Saint Clare’s. The driver keeps looking at me in the rearview mirror. Can’t say I blame him. I bare my teeth at him and after that he keeps his eyes on the road.

Mrs Maximoff is sitting in the waiting room, a magazine resting on her knee. She looks like she’s aged about ten years since she first came into my office.

‘Mr Barnes,’ she gasps when she sees me, and pushes herself to her feet.

‘It’s alright, don’t go getting up on my account.’ I sit down in the seat next to hers and she settles in again. ‘Is he awake yet?’

‘He was in and out a little late last night. He- well, he wasn’t making much sense.’ She gives me a tight, watery smile. ‘He recognised me, though. He knew his mother.’

‘That’s good.’ I pat her arm. ‘I’m real glad to hear that, Mrs M. Say, d’you think I could maybe talk to him a little if he wakes up today? See if he remembers anything?’

She nods. ‘You are welcome to try. Please, ask if he knows where his sister is.’

‘Of course.’ 

‘The police, they will want to speak to him too… They want to be notified as soon as he wakes.’

‘With your permission, I’ll sneak in there now, try my luck. I’ll get in and out as quick as I can.’ She nods. I pat her arm again. ‘I’m going to find who did this, I promise. But-’

‘Yes?’

‘The police are going to have some hard questions for you, if they haven’t been asking them already.’ I cast a quick glance around my room and lean in close. ‘Mrs Maximoff, are you sure you had absolutely no idea what your son was mixed up in?’

‘None. He is a  _ good boy _ ,’ she insists, ‘no matter what anyone may think. You may tell me I am just a mother, but I know it in my heart. He was always good.’

‘What about Wanda? Is she a good little girl as well?’ I rub my good eye. ‘People have been telling me a lot of things about your kids, Mrs M. If you don’t know about any of it, that’s good, that’ll help protect ‘em. But to do my job I need to know what you’ve heard.’

‘People are scared of Wanda, because her grandmother was Romani. They think she is a  makhasheyfe , a witch.’ She pulls a face. ‘They have small minds. She is good too. My children are good, and they have been through hell. You may think you know, that you understand, but you cannot.’

‘I’m not disagreeing with you, but Pietro was a gambler,’ I say gently, ‘and a cheat. I think you oughta know that, for when the police come asking questions, and for afterwards.’ 

She fixes me with a hard look. ‘Whatever he has done, I will protect him. It is what I have always done, what I will continue to do.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ I say and smile at her. ‘He’s lucky to have you.’

‘He is lucky to be alive.’ She picks up her magazine and turns away from me. ‘Go, see if he is awake.’ 

It doesn’t take much to slip into the ward. Pietro is unguarded, one of many beds lined up in two neat rows. The ward smells like antiseptic, and underneath is the sickly-sweet tang of everything that comes out of a human body when something’s gone wrong. I almost walk straight out the door again but I see Pietro’s head move.

I stand beside his bed and watch as he struggles into consciousness. He looks so small, and young, and pale, a slip of a kid lying there in too-big pyjamas. 

‘Water,’ he croaks, blinking up at me. I fetch a glass and half-pour it into his mouth, spilling more than I care to admit down his front. He coughs violently and I think I’ve drowned him but it passes.

‘Gee, kid, you’re like something outta Betty Smith,’ I murmur. ‘My heart’s breakin’ here.’

‘Who’re you?’ he asks, finally seeing me. ‘Where’s Mama?’

‘Name’s Bucky. I’m the one who found you.’ He paws at me until I figure out what he’s asking and help him sit up. ‘Can you remember anything?’

He shakes his head. ‘Just that it hurt, and everything was too bright, and then it all got dark. Why’d it get so dark?’ 

‘You’ve been shot. Do you know why they shot you?’ I can see the edge of the bandage peeking out from under his collar. ‘D’you know why you didn’t die?’

‘Mm-mm.’ He shakes his head again, screwing his eyes shut tight. ‘Wait, uh...they did something to us, gave us pills. Maybe that- but I don’t know.’

‘Who? Who gave you the pills?’ I try to keep my tone light, keep out the urgency, but it’s tough. I just want to shake him, make him talk. ‘Did you get their names?’

‘No, but- they were German. They argued a lot, I remember…’ he stares up at the ceiling, seeing something that isn’t there. ‘They were arguing about time, I think. One of them, the tall one, he kept saying… “uns läuft die Zeit davon”.’ 

‘“We are running out of time…” Time for what?’

‘I don’t know. Where’s- where’s my sister?’ he starts straining, trying to see into the other beds. ‘Where’s Wanda? Did you rescue her too?’

‘She’s safe,’ I lie. ‘You’ll get to see her soon, I’m sure. Is there anything else you can remember?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ He sinks back down into the pillow, a wan little doll carelessly forgotten. ‘Is my Mama here?’

‘I’ll go get her,’ I assure him. 

I turn toward the exit, eager to get away from the hospital smell and the quiet moans of pain and dying, but someone is blocking my way.

‘Hello, Mr Barnes,’ she says with a quirk of the lips. 

‘Miss Romanoff.’ We stare at each other, like animals sizing each other up before a fight.

‘Mama? Is that you?’ comes Pietro’s quavering voice from behind me. Natasha glances toward him, eyes flashing.

‘Stay quiet, kid,’ I hiss at him through my teeth. Then, to Natasha, ‘You followin’ me around now?’

‘I’m not here for you. Although this is quite the coincidence.’ She starts walking toward us, hand going to her purse. ‘Why don’t you walk away, Mr Barnes?’

‘I ain’t going anywhere.’ I put my body between her and the kid. It’s not half the shield I want it to be. ‘This kid is my case. You kill him, you’ll never get me to take yours.’

‘I threaten you, Mr Barnes. Not the other way around,’ she says, pulling out a small, pearl-handled revolver. My mouth goes dry. ‘Now, who says I’m going to kill him?’

‘Why’re you doing this?’ I ask, eyeing the revolver nervously. She’s not pointing it anywhere in particular just yet. ‘What is he to you?’

‘I just have some questions for him, that’s all.’ She raises the gun slowly and suddenly I’m  _ really _ nervous. ‘Though perhaps I should be asking you instead.’

‘Ask away,’ I say, voice surprisingly steady. I lick my lips and taste sweat on my upper lip.

‘Come with me, Mr Barnes. That’s a demand, not a question.’ The gun is pointing right at me. 

‘Hold tight, kid,’ I say to Pietro. 

Romanoff comes sashaying up the ward. She sidles up on my left like an affectionate tiger and puts her arm around my waist. I can feel the gun pressing into my hip. It’s the only thing I can feel. My whole world is the gun at my hip and the pounding of my heart in my chest. She leads me out of the ward and past the waiting room where Mrs Maximoff sits and stares at the wall, then we’re out of the hospital and standing beside a red Lincoln Continental. 

‘We going for a drive?’ I ask. She opens the passenger door and smiles at me. 

I climb in. The engine purrs to life and she pulls us away from the curb. She’s still holding the gun. I don’t like my chances of taking it from her, not without getting a few holes put in me for my troubles. 

‘Don’t make that face at me,’ she says.

‘Was I making a face?’ 

‘You were. It’s a bit of a drive, so you may as well try and enjoy it.’ She looks at me coyly. ‘If you’re very well behaved, I might even put away my gun.’

‘What if I keep making the face?’ I’m not sure what the face is, exactly, but I try and do it less. ‘You gonna shoot me ‘cause of my face?’

‘I’m going to shoot you because of your face.’ She glances me up and down, then slides the gun into her purse. ’But not today.’

‘Well, at least I have that to look forward to.’ I try harder to smooth my features out into something less apparently objectionable, in case she changes her mind about the gun. ‘You gonna tell me where we’re going?’

‘Out of the city, a little way upstate.’

‘Gonna get more specific?’

‘Nope.’

‘Am I finally going to meet this boss of yours?’

‘That’s the plan.’ 

‘Is  _ he _ going to have problems with my face?’ 

‘Most likely, but don’t worry. He doesn’t like to make a scene.’ She looks over at me again with a very convincing expression of concern. ‘You may as well try and get some sleep.’ 

‘I don’t think I can. No offence.’ I look pointedly at her purse. 

‘None taken. Still, you look exhausted. Sleep.’ She says it like a threat. 

‘I have some questions first. Can I ask questions?’ 

‘You can ask,’ she says with a smirk. 

‘I assume that means you won’t answer.’ 

‘That depends on the questions.’ Whatever I was doing with my face can’t be anywhere near as infuriating as what Romanoff is capable of doing with hers. 

‘Alright. Did you go to that hospital to kill Pietro Maximoff?’ 

‘No. I told you, I was there to ask questions.’ 

‘And if you didn’t like his answers?’ 

‘Does it matter? I understand you’re involved with the boy somehow, but he looks half-dead already. Do you really think he’ll be walking out of that hospital?’ She keeps her face neutral, a little curious. 

‘I’m not making any guesses just yet.’ I don’t want to look at her anymore so I stare out the window. ‘Do you have any idea what’s been done to him?’ 

‘I really don’t.’ I can feel her eyes on me. ‘Care to tell me?’

‘Not particularly.’ 

I’m not sure that I believe her, but I know I won’t make her talk, not like this. I glance back at her purse; the handle of the revolver glints icily. 

‘Let me be very clear, Mr Barnes: if you try and take my gun, I will crash this very nice car, and only one of us will be walking away from the wreck. Understood?’ 

‘Sure. Crystal.’ 

I stare out the window again. The city keeps on sliding by, the buildings getting smaller and smaller like we’re travelling backwards through progress. I get antsy out here, away from the big buildings. Every tree could have a sniper, every field could have a foxhole. The quiet of the country is a threat, the threat of bullets and barbed wire and tanks rolling in to make a battlefield that’s so very, very loud. 

I pull my hat down over my eyes and try to sleep.


	7. Iron and Ivory

I wake suddenly, jolted out of darkness by some movement of the car. The sun is high in the sky and we’re pulling into a long, gravel drive, lined on either side by young poplars. Lawn stretches out into the distance on either side, painfully green. 

‘You talk in your sleep,’ Romanoff says softly. I can barely hear her over the sound of the motor.

‘Yeah? That doesn’t surprise me.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Hope I didn’t say anything too obscene.’

‘Nothing I haven’t heard before.’ She gives me a curious smile. ‘You called out a name. A few times, actually.’

‘I don’t remember.’ 

The drive curves around and straightens out and suddenly we’re looking at a house. It’s a long, modernist building, two stories, all hard white angles and grey stone. There are half a dozen cars parked in the driveway, which has become a circle encasing a large pond. Rising from the water is an abstract bronze sculpture. A tall hedge blocks off the view of the garden.

‘What do you think?’ Natasha drives slowly around the pond and parks in between two other luxury cars. ‘Eye-catching, isn’t it?’

‘If you like that kind of thing.’ I do, but I’m being petty. I think I’ve earned it.

‘We’ll have to go in the back. Wouldn’t want you to scare off the guests.’ She gives me a teasing smile. Too many smiles, for a woman who’s got her gun drawn on me again.

‘Aw, hey, I thought we were pals,’ I whine. She tilts her head condescendingly and points me towards a gate in the hedge. 

There’s an unexpected salt tang to the air, like the ocean is close. The landscaping is claustrophobic. We pass through a little garden with another sculpture in the centre, through another gate and out onto a lawn broken by a bronze-tiled pool. A man in crisp white uniform rakes non-existent leaves from the water’s surface. He barely looks up as Romanoff waves me toward a doorway. 

It’s cooler here than in the city and inside the house is cooler still. I can feel the gooseflesh on my arms as we step out of the sunlight and into a sort of living area. Everything is ivory; thick, ivory carpet, ivory furniture, ivory walls. Long, ivory curtains block out most of the sun. The dim lighting and the off-white makes it all look dirty, though I can tell the whole house is kept at the level of clean that would put the most fastidious housewife to shame. 

Romanoff prompts me through another doorway and up what must be a servant’s staircase. The modernist exterior is clearly mostly facade; inside, there’s the usual emphasis on keeping the haves separate from the have-nots. The building twists and bends and hides itself so that the guests never have to be offended by the sight of the likes of me. I chuckle to myself and it echoes off the staircase walls.

We reach a set of double doors. In front of them is a little desk and at the desk is a little secretary. She’s dressed severely in all-black, with her platinum hair pulled back so tight I can see her little pink scalp. She looks up at us and her barely-visible eyebrows shoot upwards. Romanoff smiles slowly at her and she picks up a little telephone and squeaks into it. 

‘Mr Pierce will be with you shortly. He says you’re welcome to sit inside.’ She opens the double doors and ushers us in, closing them behind us as gently as if this were a mausoleum. 

Romanoff strides confidently forward and sits on the edge of a big, slate-grey desk. She nods at one of the two chairs in front of it and I shuffle up and sit down. The office is cavernous and bare, with the same ivory carpet and walls, the desk a rock floating in a milky ocean. The wall behind the desk is covered with ivory curtains. I can just see the poplars of the long driveway through a chink in the fabric. A Newton’s cradle sits on the desk next to a pair of black fountain pens, a black telephone on the other side. Another door to the left of the desk is shut tight, though the room has the sense of someone’s having just walked through it.

We sit in silence for a while. Romanoff takes all of the bullets out of her revolver, cleans it, and puts them back in again. She’s just finishing up when the door to the left opens up and a man comes through it. He’s older, well-built and handsome, a lot of strawberry-blonde still visible in his greying hair. His suit is grey and very expensive-looking, as are the tasteful platinum cufflinks and lapel pin he wears. His tie is beige silk hand-painted with swirls of silver and gold, and his shirt is crisp and starkly white. The ivory of the room looks even dirtier in comparison. 

The man gives Romanoff a disapproving look and she slides off the table, coming to stand behind me. She rests a firm hand on my shoulder. He sits across from us, looking at me over spectacles with thin, wire frames. 

‘I take it you’re Mr Pierce,’ I say, because I’m sick of silences and because this man is as cold as his house. 

‘You must be the detective,’ he says, like I never spoke. ‘Natasha didn’t tell me you were coming today.’

‘I wasn’t.’ I pull my cigarettes out of my coat pocket. ‘May I?’

‘Please,’ he says with a wave of his hand. He stands and comes around the table, perching in the spot where Romanoff was, and pulls out a silver lighter. ‘Let me help you with that.’

‘Thanks.’ I let him light the cigarette for me. ‘Want to tell me what I’m doing here?’

‘You an army man, detective?’ He holds up the lighter, staring at it. ‘You seem like an army man. I’m assuming that’s where you…’

He waves at my empty sleeve and I nod. His mouth twitches up in what’s almost a smile, then he turns the lighter around and shows me the battalion number engraved on it. 

‘I served in both wars. After the first they swore there’d never be a second, but here we are.’ He puts the lighter away and folds his arms. ‘People are like that, aren’t they? You think you’ve finally sorted out all your problems, and they go and make some more. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Not really.’ I blow smoke out the corner of my mouth. ’Assume I’m real stupid, and you need to explain it real slow.’

‘Fine.’ He stands and walks slowly back around the desk, trailing his fingertips along its surface. He sits, leaning back in the chair. ‘It took me a long time to build all this. I never really had much growing up, you know how it is. I started in ‘23, working my way up slowly. Nearly lost it all in the Depression. Then, another war, and that slowed me down, but finally I’ve nearly got things just how I want them. So you can imagine my…  _ discomfort _ when I find out certain people haven’t been respecting what I’ve built.’

‘As I told Miss Romanoff, I’m not a bodyguard. Or a goon. I’m not going to beat people up because you don’t like how they sit at your table.’ I can’t see an ashtray anywhere, so I tap out my cigarette onto the desk. ‘Even if I would, I definitely don’t appreciate being dragged up here at gunpoint.’

‘Well now, that’s certainly not my doing. Natasha, have you been naughty?’ He waggles his finger at her.

For a moment I think I feel her nails dig into my shoulder, but I must be imagining it.

‘Sir, I think you ought to get to the point,’ she says.

He stares at her over his glasses for a long moment, then sighs. ‘Can I be frank with you, Mr Barnes? Just between us?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I say levelly, and tap more ash onto his big, stupid desk.

‘There are drugs in my establishments, detective. Narcotics. Now, I’m perfectly tolerant of the odd bit of reefer. I’ll even look the other way if my clients wish to use heroin, as long as they’re discrete.’ He gives me a half-smile, like he’s being indulgent. I feel like icy hands are running down my spine. ‘The police don’t mind too much, as long as no one causes trouble. But these past few months…’

‘There’s been trouble?’ 

‘That’s right.’ He stands and turns his back to us, pulling aside the curtain and staring out the window. A shaft of jaundiced sunlight splashes across the desk. ‘I’ve worked a long time to ensure a very prestigious clientele. I want them to feel safe in my establishments. But in the past, oh, two, maybe three months, people walk in my doors and walk out quite different.’

‘What kind of different?’ 

‘Loud. Aggressive. Violent. In a few cases, people have seemed to go quite mad. It has cost me a great deal to get them somewhere they are able to calm down again without drawing attention.’ He turns back to face us, expression grim. ‘I want you to find out who is supplying these substances so that they may be shut down. Before anyone else gets hurt.’

‘Why not just go to the police? Surely you’ve got enough of them in your pocket,’ I state flatly.

‘Some very powerful people come through my doors, Mr Barnes. Having police conducting an investigation while they are merely trying to relax would be upsetting to them. Unfortunately I think the police would find it...  _ frustrating _ to have to investigate without that access. That’s why I’ve turned to you.’

‘That’s why I’ve turned you down.’ 

But everything itches, and I don’t want to turn down this case anymore. Or I do; I don’t want this man’s money, or anything else to do with him. But I feel like I’ve been climbing up a very long rope and I can finally see the top of the well. I just need what he knows to get there.

‘Well, that’s very disappointing, but I’m sure Natasha wouldn’t have dragged you all this way for nothing.’ He gives her a searching look. ‘Unless this has to do with the business from earlier?’

‘I think he should see her,’ she says quietly. 

‘See who?’ I ask, trying to twist around to look at her. She holds me steady. 

‘Is that such a good idea?’ the man asks. 

‘It’s why I brought him here.’ I don’t need to look to know she’s doing one of her infuriating little smiles. ‘I think you’ll be happy with the outcome.’

‘Very well.’ Pierce gestures to the door near his desk. ‘Shall we?’

My heart is beating hard inside my chest and I’m covered in cold sweat. I need a glass of water. We follow another twist of corridors, Romanoff in front, me in the middle, Pierce taking up the rear. Finally we stop outside a grey door like all the rest. 

‘After you,’ Romanoff says, twisting the handle and stepping back so the door swings wide. 

A sour smell hits me, like piss and unwashed linens and old, old sweat. All the heat in the house seems to have been sucked into this room and it rolls into the hall like a fog. Everything is ivory again, a bare room with curtains drawn tight and a low bed in the centre. There’s a radio on a small table in the corner, warbling quietly. I gag and swallow hard, peering into the dim light. The sheets are piled in the centre of the bed, filthy in a way that nothing else in this house would ever dare to be filthy. Something moves in them. 

I edge into the room, eyes so wide they hurt. The thing in the bed moans, a pathetic, keening sound. I move closer until I can see dark hair and pale skin sheened with sweat. One thin wrist is tied to the bedpost with an ivory sash.

‘Why is she restrained?’ I growl.

‘She was violent, at first,’ Romanoff says quietly. ‘She was thrashing about, striking out at people… We had to restrain her, for her protection.’

I reach out and touch the girl’s wrist. She jerks away from my touch. I can feel the welts where the sash has chafed at her skin. 

‘Untie her.’ I can feel myself shaking, but my voice is steady. ‘She’s not hurting anyone now. If it’s for her sake, then untie her.’

Romanoff comes up beside me and pulls at the knot. It won’t budge. A pucker forms between her eyebrows as she tugs at it. 

‘Get a knife,’ I snap.

‘I’ve got it,’ she snaps back, and the knot finally comes loose. The girl pulls her arm in slowly, curling into herself.

I sit on the edge of the bed and reach out, so gently, more gently than I’ve done anything in my life, and brush the girl’s hair out of her face. She looks up at me, eyes fever-bright and barely comprehending: Wanda Maximoff. 

‘What the hell did you do to her?’ I ask, voice still holding steady. I want to smash this whole building to the ground. 

‘We were trying to help her,’ Pierce says, like he’s offended. ‘I dare say it’s more than she deserves.’

I’m on my feet in an instant and Romanoff is standing in front of me, hands planted against my chest. 

‘Don’t’, she says, quiet but firm, and the look in her eyes makes me step back again and breathe deep. The sour smell of Wanda’s sickbed fills my nostrils. 

‘We caught her trying to peddle narcotics downstairs. She had enough wits about her ro run into one of the bathrooms and flush everything, but when we tried to get her to talk she was insensible.’ Pierce flicks on a lightswitch and Wanda curls up tighter with a whimper. ‘After we’d had her a few hours she became incredibly agitated. It soon became clear she was going through some kind of withdrawal.’ 

‘And what did you do to her before that?’ I move forward again and Natasha counters my movement, keeping herself firmly between the two of us. ‘What did you do to this girl  _ before _ you chained her to a bed?’

‘Nothing.’ His mouth twitches. ‘We asked her some questions, that’s all. I promise, no one laid a finger on her.’

‘Your promises don’t mean shit to me. You know how worried her mother’s been? You wanna tell that poor woman what you’ve been doing to her daughter?’ My voice is a little less steady, a little more loud. 

‘Calm down, Mr Barnes. As I told you, we haven’t hurt her. We’ve been helping her.’ 

‘Like Hell. What d’you have against this family, huh?’ 

‘Ah, so that  _ was  _ her companion at the hospital,’ he says curiously. ‘You were right, Natasha.’

I glare down at Romanoff, who still has her hands raised. 

‘She seems to like listening to the radio,’ Natasha says calmly. ‘The music keeps her calm. She caught a news bulletin about a boy who’d been shot outside an empty building and taken to hospital. The girl started freaking out, wanting to know the story.’

‘So you decided to, what? Kill him?’ 

‘How many times, Mr Barnes?’ she sighs wearily. ‘I just wanted to ask him some questions. That’s all. See if he knew her, knew what she’d been doing.’

‘Pietro?’ Wanda’s voice is weak, scratchy, like she’s spent a long time screaming. ‘Are you talking about Pietro?’

I glare at Romanoff again and go and sit beside Wanda. ‘He’s alright. Your brother’s alright.’

‘Baruch Hashem,’ she murmurs. Her eyes well up. ‘Can I see him? Please?’

‘Well, well. Look who’s finally ready to talk.’ Pierce walks to the bedside and smiles. It’s a warm expression, like how pissing your pants in terror is warm. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

Wanda shrinks away from him. I stand, lining myself up with him toe-to-toe like I want to slow dance. His eyes are the cold, deadly blue of the ocean.

‘Let me take her, right now,’ I say quietly, ‘and I’ll take your damn case. But you try to stop me, and I’ll knock every damned one of your teeth in.’

‘I have no doubt of your conviction, detective, although the state of your face tells me you tend to lose fights more than you win them,’ he says with a condescending little smile. ‘However, I am tired of babysitting the brat. Take her, get something useful from her if you can, and come back here when you’ve got results. Natasha will drive you both back to wherever you want to go.’

He walks out. His shoes make no sound on the thick carpet but I imagine I can hear them echoing down the hallway all the same.

‘Come on, sheifale.’ I gently help Wanda to her feet. I want to carry her, but have to settle for half-carrying, half-dragging her as Romanoff leads us back through the labyrinthian hallways. 

We step out onto the lawn and Wanda gasps. She blinks against the light, then smiles, mouth too wide and teeth too big in her emaciated face. She stumbles forward and I let her go, watching as she marvels at the grass under her feet. 

‘Have you even been feeding her?’ I ask Romanoff angrily. 

‘Anything we gave her, she threw right back up.’ She frowns at me, and I almost believe that it’s sincere. ‘You’re angry.’

‘Of course I’m angry.’ 

‘No, I mean- you know what’s going on here, don’t you? You’ve worked it out.’

‘A lot of it, yeah. But I’ve still got a lot of questions.’ 

‘Why are you so angry, when you’re so close?’ Romanoff looks at me like I’m a puzzle to solve.

‘I’m not going to explain myself to you.’

There’s a splash, and we both look around, startled. Wanda’s head emerges from the pool. She wipes water from her eyes. 

‘I just needed to feel it,’ she says, grabbing onto the edge of the pool. ‘I just needed to feel.’

I pull her out of the water, getting thoroughly soaked in the process, and give her my jacket. Her fingers dive in and out of the buttonholes, worrying at their edges. She seems a little more alert, leaning on me a little less heavily as we head to the car. Over and over she murmurs, barely audible, ‘ _ I just needed to feel _ .’


	8. Bulletproof Man

Wanda sleeps fitfully on the back seat as we make our way back into the city. Romanoff has been silent since we left the house, and I don’t much feel like talking to her. The salt tang in the air makes sense now; she lied about Pierce’s place being upstate, doubling back after I fell asleep. I realised as we pulled out of the driveway and I started recognising the moneyed landscape of East Hampton. There doesn’t seem much point in trying to fight about it, not when I don’t think I’ll get a straight answer.

The Long Island traffic is heavy, roads full of the upper crust looking to escape the heat on their own private sliver of white sand. It’s late afternoon when we finally pull up outside Saint Clare’s. 

‘You’re not coming inside.’ I glare at Romanoff. ‘You’re not going to be hovering around trying to get scraps to feed that creep you work for while a poor family tries to reconcile.’ 

‘Fine.’ She leans against the car, looking bored. 

I barely get Wanda across the threshold before she starts panicking. She tries to pull away from me, eyes wide. 

‘What is it, kid?’ I take her back a little away from the entrance. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘The smell.’ She squeezes her eyes tight and shakes her head. ‘It smells like…’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know.’ I sigh and look over at the car, where Romanoff is leaning like she’s there to sell it. I jerk my head at her. ‘Hold tight, kid.’

Romanoff saunters over, looking infuriatingly satisfied. 

‘Stay with her. Don’t pull anything.’ She puts her arm around Wanda’s shoulders. Wanda flinches, but in her eyes she’s somewhere else.

Mrs Maximoff is in the waiting room again. Steve is with her. They’re talking, heads bent together. 

‘James!’ I turn. Carter has appeared beside me, looking surprised. ‘We’ve been calling everywhere looking for you.’

‘Yeah. I, um, ended up taking a bit of a detour. There’s something I need to-’ my voice is abruptly muffled by Steve’s chest. He steps back quickly and drops his arms, looking embarrassed.

‘Thought something had happened,’ he mumbles. 

‘It’s alright, big guy.’ I give his arm a squeeze. ‘I need to talk to the lady.’

Steve and Carter hang back as I lead Mrs Maximoff outside. She gasps when she sees Wanda, just loud enough for me to hear, and walks forward with her arms reaching out. Wanda doesn’t react until she’s well into being hugged, when it’s like something finally blinks on and then it’s a whole scene with the crying and the heartfelt words. Then somehow I’m being hugged and maybe I’m crying a little too, not that I’ll never admit it.

I finally disentangle myself and go and stand a little bit apart with Carter and Steve, who lights us each a cigarette. Romanoff hangs back from us all, watching me watch Mrs Maximoff try and coax Wanda into the hospital. 

‘You get anything this morning?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ says Steve, at the same time Carter says ‘No.’

I blink at them questioningly. ‘What did you get?’

‘A lifetime ban from the Carlyle!’ Steve says chirpily, then hangs his head and sighs. 

‘You would think someone who used to carry out stealth missions would be a little better at sneaking around,’ Carter says drily. 

‘They clearly know we’re working together,’ Steve protests. ‘They were on us like flies the minute we walked in.’

I tap my chin. ‘I need to get in there. Properly, this time. Stop running around and see if I can’t get them to come to me.’

‘You may be right.’ Carter blinks slowly, lashes casting heavy shadows on her cheeks. ‘Did your little disappearing act turn up anything useful, James? Other than the girl, of course.’

‘Well, I know that they’re trying to peddle to wealthy types. They’re dressing the kids up and sending them into casinos and fancy gin joints to push product.’ I glance over at Wanda. Something’s eating at me, and I can’t remember what. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to the others and I don’t like to think. But I think I can finally talk to a friend of mine in the NYPD about all this.’

***

I use the phone in the hospital hallway. Dugan isn’t exactly pleased to hear from me. When I tell him I found the girl he tells me my case is finished so I ought to be done with the lot of it and goes to hang up the phone.

‘Dum-Dum, wait. I need you with me on this. For old time’s sake.’ I can hear him grinding his teeth down the phone. ‘Don’t make me pull rank on you.’

‘My hands are tied, sarge.’ 

‘I know. Better than I did before.’ I pause. ‘I’ve been to see Mr Pierce.’

Dugan swears and there’s a sound like he’s nearly dropped the phone. ‘Don’t say that name.’

‘I know that was one of his boys down at the graving dock, and in that poor woman’s apartment. They’re the ones he sent to investigate before he got sick of his own guys getting plugged and decided to try me.’

‘I can’t comment on any of that.’

‘Listen, I ain’t asking you to spill anyone’s secrets. I’m just asking you to be around a certain place at a certain time. I don’t even need you acting in any sort of official capacity, but it might be good to have a policeman present.’ He’s been saying no to me this whole time, but I think he’ll say yes now. ‘If this goes the way I’m hoping, our mutual companion will be happy. I promise.’

‘And what if it doesn’t?’ I can picture from the sound of his voice how red and blustery his face must be. ‘Aw, hell, sarge, I told you to stay away from all this.’ 

‘But you didn’t tell it to stay away from me.’ 

I tell him to meet me at the Carlyle at six and hang up. Steve is standing next to me, glowering.

‘I don’t like you going in there without me.’ His brows are knotted together. I press my thumb into the crease in his forehead. 

‘Don’t you worry about me, doll. I’m Bucky Barnes, the bulletproof man.’ He swats my hand away.

‘That is- that is incredibly untrue. Just in the time I’ve known you-’ 

‘Wouldya lighten up? Listen, I’m not wild about going in there without you either. To tell you the truth, I’m not wild about going anywhere without you. You’ve got a hold on me, Rogers, and when all this is over I’ve got a mind to hold you back.’ I talk quickly, voice low, eyes darting around to make sure no one’s listening. ‘But I’ve got some personal closure to attain, and seeing as how you went and got yourself banned from the place I’m headed, then you know very well you’ll have to stay behind.’

‘Are looking for closure, or revenge?’ He glares at me. The crease is back. 

‘Aw Hell, here I am trying to be romantic.’ I want to smooth that crease away, but something’s chewing on my gut. ‘Say, you heard from Peter?’

‘We gave him a call after we left the hotel. He’s still at the automat.’

‘Better call him, tell him he can finally get his scoop.’ 

‘We’re not done talking,’ Steve says with a warning look.

‘Course not.’ 

I pick up the phone again. 

‘About time, detective,’ Dot says when the grumbling head waitress finally puts her on. ‘You’re lucky all your friends are paying customers, or we’d both be in trouble.’

‘Speaking of, the kid still there?’ 

‘He took off about an hour and a half ago, said he was gonna give you a ring.’ Dot sounds worried. ‘You’d better not let anything happen to that kid, Bucky. I mean it. He’s one of the good ones.’

‘Don’t I know it. He say where he was going?’ 

‘Only that he was going to get something done right.’ She pauses. ‘I think he really worships you.’ 

‘I know, I- I’m looking out for him, I promise.’

‘You’d better be.’

I wait until she hangs up before I swear colourfully. Steve’s still standing next to me, and he looks up in alarm. 

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing yet, that I know of. I’d better get a cab.’

‘To where?’

‘The Carlyle.’ I try to get past him and he puts a hand on my chest.

‘It’s still early. You’re not meeting your friend until six.’ He gives me a stern look. ‘Make a plan, for once in your life.’

‘You oughtta patent that look and sell it,’ I tell him. He huffs at me. ‘I’ll come up with something in the cab.’

I pat his cheek and push past, marching out of the hospital and towards the taxi rank. A small hand grabs my arm and I spin around. 

‘Mr Barnes, please let me help.’ Wanda looks up at me, so frail I’m worried she’ll fall over if I breathe on her too hard.

‘Like Hell. ‘Scuse my language.’ I try to make my face into something stern but tender, but I’m pretty sure I just grimace at her. ‘You’ve been through enough. You need to rest.’

‘I can’t. Not yet.’ Her eyes bore into mine. ‘I’m stronger than I look, Mr Barnes.’

‘I certainly hope so.’ I look down at her hand, which is gripping my arm like a vice. I can tell I won’t be able to shake her off without getting physical. 

‘Alright, you just go tell your mother where you’re going.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? You’d leave without me.’ She waves to a cab driver and slips her hand into mine. ‘I already told her you’re taking me home.’

‘Is that really such a bad idea?’ 

‘No. We need to change our clothes.’ She pulls me into the cab and tells the driver where to go, then rests her head on my shoulder and speaks softly. ‘I know which hotel room they’re in. We’ll go up together and stall them until your friend from the police arrives.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘I was listening.’ She looks up, eyes wide and bright. ‘I’m not just some foolish little girl. I know what I’m doing.’

‘Is that so?’ I snort. ‘You’ve gotten yourself into some awful funny situations for someone who knows what they’re doing.’

‘I had to protect my brother.’ 

‘Look how that turned out,’ I sneer.

‘Don’t be mean just because you’re angry.’ 

‘Maybe I’m always mean.’ 

‘Maybe you ought to work on that.’

We sit in silence until the cab pulls up at the Maximoff’s apartment block. I pay the driver and we head inside. The lobby of the building is old-fashioned and dusty but not unpleasant. A man sleeps behind the desk, a baseball game drifting from the stereo beside him. There’s an unattended lift with an ornate grille, painted with chipped green enamel. Wanda leans on me heavily and the lift rattles upward to the third floor. 

She lets us in with a key hidden under the mat and walks straight to one of the bedrooms. The apartment is modest but well-furnished, the home of someone with little money but excellent taste. An oak sideboard is covered with silver-framed photographs, mostly of Wanda and Pietro. They look more alive in the pictures than they have in the time I’ve known them.

‘Put this on,’ Wanda says, emerging with an armful of black clothing. She hands it to me and disappears into another room.

She’s handed me a black jacket and a thick, black coat. They smell a little musty and look too big but I put the jacket on. They can’t be Pietro’s; they must have belonged to their father. I feel both childish and morbid, sagging at one shoulder and sleeve flapping loosely at the other, misshapen and awkward in a dead man’s clothes.

Wanda comes out again. In the space of ten minutes she’s nearly transformed herself; she’s put on a black cocktail dress and heels and rouged her cheeks and lips. Her lank hair is coiled at the nape of her neck and fastened under a hat. The dress doesn’t hang quite right and her eyes are still feverish but she looks almost normal. She shrugs into a stole and looks me up and down disapprovingly. 

‘Here.’ She hands me a pair of sunglasses and a scarf. ‘You’ll have to put the coat on when we get there and just hope for the best.’

‘I think before that happens you and I might need to have a little chat.’ I put my hand on my hip. ‘You’re looking awful put together for someone who was half dead not too long ago.’

‘I’m a lot stronger than I look,’ she sniffs.

‘So you keeping saying, and I don’t doubt it. What worries me is you seeming to expect I’m just going to roll over and let you go barging in one of the men who had you half dead in the first place.’ She tries to brush past me and I block her way. ‘Now look here, I’ve been dragged into a whole lot of mess on account of you and your brother, so you’d better get to talking.’

‘I thought we were on a deadline.’

‘Talk fast.’

She looks up at me, sticking her bottom lip out like she’d hoping it will break off. She’s playing petulant, but it doesn’t convince. Behind it all I can tell she’s bone tired in that way I know all too well. Her eyes keep drifting out of focus. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t matter?’ I snarl. ‘How much you think it’s gonna matter to that sweet mother of yours when I tell her how many dead bodies I’ve bumped up against trying to find you?’

‘She doesn’t need to know,’ she says firmly, eyes flashing with sudden focus. ‘Besides, this will all be over soon.’

‘Yeah? Then what’s it matter if you tell your old pal Bucky what the Hell you’re doing running around with Nazi scientists?’ My voice is hard. I’m a hard man, me. All she’s been through and here I am, doing my utmost to make a young girl cry. I’m a real putz. 

She sticks her chin out and for a second I think her tongue is about to follow. ‘Gee, mister, I don’t know. Maybe because they had my brother and me over a barrel?’ 

‘You get in trouble like that, you skip town. Lie low. You don’t go signing up to get experimented on.’ 

‘We didn’t  _ sign up _ ,’ she snaps, then sighs. Tension shifts in her body and I can tell that whatever she’s carrying, the burden isn’t small. ‘A few months back, Pietro took a big win that wasn’t his. I tried to stop him, but he got greedy. We thought he was going to get into trouble, but for a while nothing happened. Then we realised we were both losing time, waking up in strange places feeling all wrung out. We thought we were going mad.’

‘You know how that sounds.’ I say it just to be mean.

‘Hell, sure I do.’ Wanda shrugs. Her misery rises and falls with her shoulders. ‘Then a man shows up when we’re having lunch, tells us we’ve been working off a debt but not quickly enough and if we don’t want him to start carving chunks out of our ma, then we’d need to come with him.’

‘So you did.’

She shakes her head. ‘Not at first. We stopped going out so much, didn’t go nowhere we couldn’t get a ride. It didn’t stop us from waking up sick as dogs, with strange bruises. Eventually we figured out someone was just grabbing us off the street and drugging us so’s we couldn’t remember what was going on.’ 

‘All this was happening without your mother noticing a thing?’ 

‘We are supposed to be safe in this country.’ She shrugs again. ‘We kept going to school. That’s how they always knew where we were. But we couldn’t leave. It would break Mama’s heart.’

‘Seems it got broken anyway.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. ‘You’re really trying to tell me you don’t remember what they did to you?’

‘Bits and pieces.’ Her eyes slide out of focus and the shutters draw across her face, leaving something cold and empty. ‘Nothing before it was too late. Can we go now?’

I scrub the back of my neck. ‘I really don’t think you ought to come along.’

‘Too bad.’ The girl snaps back into place behind her eyes. ‘You need me for this.’

‘What are you planning to do if I say no?’ She looks at me sheepishly and opens her purse. A snubnose revolver winks at me. ‘You know how to use that?’

Wanda shakes her head. ‘How hard can it be?’

‘I’m not even going to ask where you got it.’ I hold out my hand and she reluctantly gives me the gun. I tuck it into my coat pocket. ‘Got any other surprises?’ 

‘A knife.’

‘You can keep the knife.’

‘How generous of you.’ 

‘Guess we’d better call another cab.’

‘Don’t bother. Can you drive?’ She cocks her head and looks at me skeptically.

‘Of course,’ I reply.

‘We can borrow my boyfriend’s car.’ 

‘Your boyf- I thought you threw him over?’ 

‘We can still borrow his car.’ She looks very sure of herself. 

‘I don’t think he’s gonna be too keen on the notion, on account of you throwing him over and me all but accusing him of your murder.’ 

‘Well, I wasn’t planning to ask. If that’s alright with you. Only, I figure you might want to get going and I wasn’t planning on answering a bunch of questions.’ 

‘If I tell you I’m beginning to see how you get yourself into certain situations, will you make me regret not taking your knife?’

‘Let’s not find out.’

***

The car’s a hunk of junk, a battered tin Lizzie with crumbling seats. There’s no way to make it inconspicuous in this neighbourhood so we park around the block.

‘Wait here,’ she tells me.

‘Like Hell,’ I growl, grabbing her arm. ‘Kid, you are not going up there alone.’ 

‘It’s the only way they’ll let us in,’ she says insistently. ‘Follow in twenty minutes. Fifteenth floor, room number three.’ 

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ I say through clenched teeth and let her go. 

She doesn’t look back to see if I stay put so I don’t. I leave the car and head around the other way, getting there in time so I can see her enter the hotel without her seeing me. I tell myself she doesn’t look as small or as fragile as I think she does. 

My old friend is watching from the other side of the street, scribbling furiously into a notepad. Someone interrupts him to buy a paper and when he looks up again, I’m in front of him.

‘Hey, shamus,’ he drawls like he’s not surprised to see me. ‘That was your girl, or I’ll eat my hat.’

‘You look like you could use it.’ 

‘My sweetheart’s thrown me over. Really lookin’ to win her back with a good time, if you know what I’m talking about.’

‘Better than you, kid. You got something for me?’

‘Yeah. Looks like rain.’ He points up and I follow his finger. The sky is oppressively blue, and the city is so hot it feels like it’s about to boil over. ‘How’s that for a tip?’

‘Quit jerkin’ around, I ain’t got time for it.’

‘Aw, hell, I thought we had fun. Alright, that big car ain’t been around. Looks like the man you’re after has been staying put, but his goons have been swarming in and outta this place like ants on a picnic.’ He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Some reporter was hanging around too, askin’ better questions than you ever did.’

I grunt. ‘Young, brown hair?’

‘Older’n me, younger’n you.’ He shrugs. ‘He went up there an hour or so ago, hasn’t come out.’

‘Aw, hell, kid,’ I mutter grimly. 

‘So, what d’you reckon that’s worth?’ 

I shake the last dollar out of my money fold and hand it over. 

‘You’re alright, detective.’ 

‘I’m all something, that’s for sure. Do yourself a favour: you see a cop come by in a coupla hours, big mustache and a bowler hat? You tell him Bucky Barnes says he oughtta put you on payroll.’

‘I ain’t no snitch,’ he gripes. 

‘Well, I get the sense I won’t be seeing you again. Take it or leave it, kid.’ 

A hot wind starts up as I hurry across the road to the hotel, strong enough to flap the tails of the dead man’s coat I wear. I glance upward just before I get under the awning, and the wind has streaked the sky with grey.


	9. The Red Skull

The lobby is nearly empty, save for a pair of men in black coats standing around an ashtray. We nod at each other as I climb into the waiting elevator. I watch them turn back to their smoking like they’ve already forgotten I was ever there.

The operator gives me a blank look and presses the button for the fifteenth floor. The cage rattles upwards, too slowly. 

I swear softly. ‘Just realised I’ve got nothing for the tip,’ I tell the operator apologetically.

He huffs and I can’t tell if it’s a cough or a laugh. ‘’S alright, I wasn’t expecting it, sir.’

‘People don’t tip here?’ I say, then wince. Way to blow your cover, Barnes.

‘Not your people. Sir.’ He’s looking at me with curiosity now, not open but discernible. 

‘Maybe they’re not my people. Maybe I just want them to think I am.’ 

‘You won’t get any contest on that from me, sir. You don’t tip, they don’t tip, far ‘s I know you’re all the same brand of bastard.’ He grins at me, showing two rows of crooked white teeth. 

‘Your boss ever tell you you oughtta be more discreet with that contempt?’

‘Hell, he’s not gonna be my boss for long.’ He shrugs and smiles as the cage jerks to a stop. ‘They’re selling this place, turning it into something for the real swells. Ain’t gonna want me in a place like that. Or you.’

‘Hell, brother, they don’t want me here now.’ I step out of the lift and tip my hat. He waves absently at me as the cage disappears down again.

The hall is empty except for a maid’s cart. The wallpaper is nice, but could be nicer. The carpet’s thick, but could be thicker. It won’t take much to turn this place into what they want to make it. New York just keeps trying to get better and better, and men like Pierce are egging it on.

The cart is at an odd angle, contents muddled like it’s been shoved aside. I riffle through the little piles of soaps, then bend down and look underneath. There’s a folding camera on the shelf, looking like it’s been stuffed out of sight in a hurry.

‘I’m gonna kill that kid,’ I say through clenched teeth.

I can hear raised voices coming from the door to number three. I try to make out what they’re saying, but they’re speaking German and mine is shaky at best. Then I hear Peter’s voice, not saying anything but crying out like he’s in pain. Wanda’s voice cuts through louder, like she’s pleading with someone. I want to kick down the door but I don’t know how many’s in there.

I knock and wait, in the greatest level of restraint I’ve shown since Private Owens crawled into my tent in ‘43 to tell me about all the ways he missed his wife.

The room goes silent and then there’s a scuffling noise and the door opens just a sliver, showing me a thin strip of Wanda’s face and nothing else. Her eye widens.

‘I told you twenty minutes,’ she whispers angrily. There’s a cut under her eye, a drop of blood threatening to dribble down her face.

‘Let me in,’ I urgently whisper back. 

‘Wer ist es?’ says a voice behind her, a voice that makes my mouth go dry.

‘One of yours,’ she says calmly, stepping back and opening the door.

I keep my eyes down and shuffle in past her, doing everything I can not to look at the man the voice belongs to. Instead I look for Peter, and find him on his knees, arm twisted behind him by a rough-shaven man in black. Peter has a black eye and the front of his shirt is ripped. 

I do a quick sweep of the room: it’s furnished with a lounge and two chairs upholstered in burgundy and emerald green, a low coffee table between them, and a bureau with chipped legs in the corner. A screen of peach-coloured silk blocks off the view of the bed. There’s a large window in one wall, mostly obscured by thick, apricot curtains. Suitcases and boxes are scattered under the window, all padlocked shut. I can’t see any other goons besides the one holding Peter, but there are plenty of places for someone to hide.

‘What is it?’ Arnim Zola, the man I won’t look at, asks me. ‘What do you want?’

‘Got bored, heard you were having fun up here,’ I reply, stretching my voice into a lazy drawl. ‘Who’s the kid?’ 

‘Caught him snooping outside with the girl. Says he wants to work for us.’ The rough-shaven man, who I’m pretty sure is Cigarette, twists Peter’s arm a little higher and he whimpers. My fist clenches and I just hope no one noticed. 

‘Oh yeah? What does he think we do?’ I stroll over, all casual-like, and crouch down in front of him, taking his chin in my hand. ‘You say he was with the girl?’

Peter looks at me and recognition flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t react. 

‘Found them both in the hallway.’ Cigarette glances over at Wanda, lip curling. ‘She disappears on us, then comes back with some stranger and thinks we all get to play happy family again?’

‘You keeping saying “us”,’ the man I won’t look at says. ‘How curious.’

‘Boss?’ He looks up, confused.

‘I mean simply that there is no  _ us _ , no  _ we _ , no happy family, as you put it. Only me.’ 

I stand up slowly, not taking my eyes off Peter. ‘What about Schmidt?’

‘And Herr Schmidt, of course.’ I expect Zola to sound nervous, but he doesn’t. Just bored. ‘Now, my sweet Fräulein, what are we to do with you both? You still have not given me a satisfying account of your disappearance.’

‘I told you, I got made.’ Wanda matches his bored tone. ‘It took me a while to get away. And this guy is nothing to do with me.’

‘Am I to believe you have come back to me willingly?’ He  _ tsk _ s. ‘I am not so naive as to think that you care about the importance of my work.’

‘Maybe I’ve got nowhere else to go.’ I can tell Wanda knows she’s made a mistake as soon as she says it. Everyone in the room knows she’s a liar. How close has Zola gotten to Mrs Maximoff? Would he know her by sight? Should have told a better lie. Shouldn’t have let her come.

Zola’s hand wanders toward his pockets. ‘Hold her,’ he snaps at me.

‘Leave her alone!’ Peter cries. Cigarette slaps his hand over Peter’s mouth, the reverberations of flesh-on-flesh dying against the soft furnishings. 

Zola’s attention snaps to the kid. He looks at Peter like he’s something to dissect. Wanda is breathing heavily, eyes roving from one person in the room to the next like a cornered, untamed thing. I’m frozen in place, half-shielding Peter, trying to get my body to follow orders.

‘What is your name?’ Zola asks Peter. His voice crawls up my spine.

Zola comes up behind me. He clears his throat impatiently, then huffs and tries to push me out of the way. His hand closes around my empty sleeve, the wool bunching in his fist. 

‘Was in aller Welt…’ he breathes, then steps quickly around me. I look at him just enough to see a gun in his hand. ‘Who are you? Take off those sunglasses!’

I try and swallow but my mouth is like the Sahara. Nothing for it now. With a steady hand I take my sunglasses off and pull my scarf down and finally let myself see him. 

Zola looks just the same, hard eyes in a soft face. His double-breasted suit is dark grey, and he wears a thin, black bowtie like an insect trapped underneath his chin. His eyes are searching my face, and I see recognition slowly take root there. 

‘Subject twenty-three. You have been causing us a lot of trouble of late’ he says, raising his gat. ‘Perhaps this is a family reunion after all.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’ I sound a hell of a lot calmer than I am. I can’t meet his eyes, can’t look at the gun. 

‘Oh, my boy, you should know that I think of you like a child. Do I not know you, truly know you, with the intimacy of a mother?’ He smiles tenderly. ‘Have I not seen you vulnerable, as only mothers see their sons?’

‘Hell, I always thought Schmidt was the crazy one.’ 

Zola scoffs. ‘Raise your hands, please, twenty-three.’ 

‘Where is the old bastard, anyway?’ I ask, sticking my hand up by my shoulder. ‘I’d hate to get all this way just to get knocked off by a henchman.’

‘Henchman?’ Zola makes an impatient noise. ‘My dear boy, I am not some sidekick. Herr Schmidt is… well, he is not what he used to be.’

‘What, so you’re running things now?’ I snort. ‘You’re a coward, Arnim. I don’t believe it.’

Zola laughs bitterly. I risk a glance at the gun. It’s still pointing at my guts, holding steady. ‘Oh yes, everyone is quite ready to believe that. Just as they were ready to believe Schmidt was the real brains behind everything we did in the war. Not for much longer.’

‘Why? What’s your plan?’ I ask. Wanda is moving behind me, heading toward the window. 

‘It is very simple, twenty-three. I knew when I smuggled Herr Schmidt into this country that we would be living on borrowed time, but I also know that America is a country of freedom.’ He sneers. ‘For a price.’

‘You thought you could use your formula to buy yourselves a pardon.’ 

‘That’s right! Clever boy.’ He smiles indulgently. I feel like the mouse the cat just caught. ‘I used my new friends in the government to get Schmidt here, then fed him what he needed to work on my designs. Eventually I was able to get out of the horrid little laboratory they had me working in, and I could start doing my own experiments. We knew we could make them an offer in due time. All we needed was proof of concept. If I’d known you hadn’t blown your brains out and were living right here in New York… well.’

It’s harder to keep the shake out of my voice now, but I like to think I manage it. ‘I don’t understand. How does sending a bunch of hopped-up kids into casinos help you?’

‘Ah, well, I must confess that was not part of the plan.’ He cocks his head and waves the gun at me. ‘Time has become an issue, and the American government are not the only ones with money anymore.’

He waves the gun again and I turn and walk where he’s pointing. He presses the barrel into the small of my back and pushes me toward the screen. I glance over and see Wanda minutely shifting the curtains. Zola is close enough that I could get the gun if I tried, but I let myself be pushed.

Zola moves around me and he’s out of grabbing distance, pulling aside the screen with the gun never moving off me. 

In the bed is a nightmare, but not mine. Not anymore. 

Johann Schmidt is a dying man. Of that, there is no question. He lies in the bed, blankets pulled to his middle and arms sitting on top of the covers. His black shirt is unbuttoned to his navel, and I can see the bones of his chest pressing through his skin. He is half the man he was, wrists like matchsticks and skull visible in the sunken red horror of his face. His skin is flaking, hair gone, lips parted in a grimace over his teeth even as his eyes wander listlessly over the ceiling. 

Zola looks at him with an expression of faint disgust. ‘I do not think I am a coward, twenty-three. But nor would I call myself a loyal man. And yet, here we are.’

The listless eyes focus suddenly on mine and a shudder runs through me. One of the hands raises shakily and points at me and from the grimacing mouth comes a death-rattle of a laugh. 

Schmidt is still laughing as Zola says, ‘You may think it could be only loyalty or cowardice which keeps me here, which made me willing to change our plans. Or, perhaps, I was moved by his courage and sacrifice.’

‘Sacrifice?’ I snort. ‘What has he sacrificed?’

‘Everything,’ the man in the bed rasps, the room heavy with his aborted laughter. He pushes himself upward on trembling hands and in his eyes I see the monster I fear so much. ‘I have given everything to this cause.’

‘Herr Schmidt has always been our first subject. Nothing has been done to the likes of you or our Fräulein here that he has not first done to himself.’ I suppose Zola is trying to sound respectful, but he still looks at Schmidt like he’s something nasty he found under a log. ‘His is a complete dedication to the science.’

‘How’s that working out for you?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Because, well, I hope you don’t think this is rude of me but you don’t look so good.’

‘Such powers of observation,’ Zola comments drily. 

‘Once we have secured funding, we shall be able to move to a proper laboratory where I will be returned to full health,’ Schmidt says woodenly, like it’s a mantra.

‘Iis that what Zola told you? That he’s going to get you all fixed up?’ I laugh, a brittle, awkward sound. ‘You don’t deserve it but hey, I’m going to be generous and say you look like you’ve got days. He’s kept you alive because he needs your mind, whatever he says, but if your formula’s done then he’s just counting down the hours until he won’t have your frankly horrifying face looming over his shoulder anymore. The only reason you’re still here is that he’s too cowardly to just kill you himself.’

Something I wasn’t meant to catch flickers across Zola’s face but I do, and then I’m laughing again, fighting back hysteria. ‘Oh, but you have killed him, haven’t you? When did you start poisoning him, hm? Did you wait until he’d solved it all for you? Or maybe you were already killing him when you were sticking your knives in me. How much does it piss you off that he’s still here, huh?’

‘Shut up! Der Abschaum!’ Zola snaps, the gun in his hand waving wildly. ‘You know nothing!’

My lips peel back from my gums and I can hardly talk from laughing. ‘How many, Arnim? How many did you have to kill because Schmidt wouldn’t just lie down and die?’ 

‘I never counted,’ he says coldly. Bare hatred burns in his eyes. 

‘You couldn’t just leave us alone!’ Wanda screams at him, making everyone jump. She thumps her chest. ‘This was meant to be our freedom.  _ Ours _ ! But you chased us across the ocean just to torture us all over again!’

‘Shut up!’ he yells again, turning the gun on her. 

I’m still laughing when I tackle him. The gun goes off and I feel the bullet as it whizzes past my ear. Zola squeals and tries to aim but I swat the gun out of his hand. Cigarette barrels into me and I crash through the silk screen. The fabric wraps around my face and I feel him pulling it tight.

I can hear Wanda and Peter screaming but all I can do is clutch at my face and throat. I scrabble backwards, flailing, until finally my hand connects with something that feels like a face. I grasp at it, finding the eye socket and clawing at it until I hit something wet and I’m dropped to the floor. I yank the fabric off but before I can get to my feet a boot hits me in the stomach and all the air I’ve just fought for is gone again.

Peter yells something and there’s a crash and I’m able to stand. The kid’s rolling around on the floor with Cigarette. Wanda is standing at the open window, screaming down at the street for help. Zola is cowering underneath the lounge. 

I yank Cigarette off Peter and throw him to the ground, giving him a boot to the face to say thanks for earlier. He goes down and stays that way. I finally think to get Wanda’s gun out.

‘Stop right there, detective,’ a voice rasps. Schmidt is standing in the centre of the room, Zola’s gun held steadily in his hand, pointing at Wanda. She stops yelling, leaning meekly back into the room. ‘Put it on the floor.’ 

‘Say I don’t?’ I ask, not moving. ‘A gun’s already been fired, Schmidt, and there’s powerful men who aren’t too pleased with what you’ve been doing. The kid’s been screaming her head off and I’ve got a friend in the law already on the way. You think you’re walking out of this?’ 

‘Just like that?’ Schmidt grins at me, a sight more horrible than anything my unconscious mind could have dreamed up. ‘I hate to tell you this, detective, but I am not a man to go down without a fight.’

‘You’ve got no fight left, look at you.’ I wave the gun at him. ‘You’ll be lucky if you even make it to your prison cell.’

‘I am not going to prison, sergeant. And neither is my traitorous colleague.’ He grins wider. ‘You think you’ve won, don’t you? What was your task, hm? Did you come to save the girl? I suppose you must be congratulating yourself on a minimum of bloodshed. I even hear her brother lived.’

‘You’ve lost, Schmidt.’

‘You won’t walk away from this that easily. I won’t allow it.’ He moves the gun from Wanda to Zola to Peter, and back again. ‘I’m a dead man walking. How many bullets do you think it will take to put me down before I’ve killed everyone in this room?’

We fire at the same time. Everything happens very quickly. Blood spatters the apricot curtains. There is hammering at the door. Wanda hits the ground. Schmidt fires again. Peter dives at him. Zola screams. Peter is on his feet, clear of Schmidt, and I fire two more rounds into Schmidt’s bare chest. Zola kicks Wanda and then he and Schmidt and Peter are rolling together, over and over. Wanda rises, a knife in her hand, and lunges at them. I try to grab her but the four of them are tangled together and there’s another shot and something heavy crashes through the window and the door bursts open and Dugan barrels into the room, closely followed by Steve. 

The room stills. Wanda staggers to me and flings her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. I look down at the men on the floor; Schmidt has Wanda’s knife in his fist, the blade buried deep in Zola’s neck. The little scientist is lying on top of his former commander, blood pumping sluggishly over the other man’s face. Schmidt’s eyes are empty, his face frozen in a bloody rictus grin. 

‘Where’s Peter?’ I ask.


	10. Epilogue: Washed Away

Rain starts falling in gluttonous drops, a few at first but they breed like rabbits until I’m wet to my bones. Two cops struggle to pull a tarpaulin over Peter’s body. Their reflections distort in the shards of broken glass. The pool of blood does its best to seep into the sidewalk but it’s washed away with everything else, until all I can see is wet and grey. 

‘Damned shame,’ Dum Dum says beside me.

‘Don’t.’ I turn my head away from him. ‘Whatever it is you’re going to say, just… don’t.’

‘You think I’m some kind of asshole?’ he asks. I grunt. ‘Bucky, look at me.’

‘I don’t need an “I told you so” from you right now.’ I can’t look at him. I can only stare at Peter’s body, smashed to pieces on the sidewalk because of me. ‘I already know this is my fault.’

‘What do you need?’ He puts his hand on my arm and I start crying like I’ll never stop. 

‘I’ll take him, detective,’ Steve says softly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I lean into him, even though I don’t deserve it.

Steve leads me away. I’m soaked through by the time he loads me into a car but I hardly notice. He pulls us away from the curb, wipers working hard against the rain.

‘Bucky,’ Steve says, shaking me, ‘Bucky, please look at me.’

I roll my head toward him. ‘Kid’s dead ‘cause of me, Steve.’

‘No way no how.’ His jaw sets in a stubborn line. ‘He knew what he was getting into. No, don’t start with me. I spent time with him, you know I did, and he wasn’t a kid, not really. He made the decision to go there, that’s on him.’

‘I promised a lot of people I’d keep him safe,’ I say, half snarling. 

‘If it weren’t for you, that girl and her brother would be dead, and who knows how many more besides. Your friend Dugan says that henchman started talking the instant they woke him up. You did a lot of good here today.’ His hand finds my thigh and he squeezes. ‘You go ahead and cry Bucky, but don’t you blame yourself. I won’t have it.’

He stops at a red light and someone gets into the back of the car. We both whip our heads around. Natasha Romanoff smiles at us, shaking water droplets from the brim of her hat.

‘It’s really pouring out there,’ she says wryly. ‘Either of you see those clouds coming?’

‘Get out,’ I growl at her, and she laughs. 

‘I’ve got an envelope here with your name on it.’ She takes a fat, brown package out of her coat and sets it on the seat beside her. ‘Don’t try to be gallant and say you won’t take it. Pierce wants you to have the money, and he always gets what he wants.’

‘Is that why he has you?’ I glare at her. A horn sounds behind us and Steve jerks the car forward. 

Natasha smiles inscrutably. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. You don’t have to believe me, but I am.’

‘You make sure Pierce knows I’m not his boy.’ 

‘Oh, he’s quite happy to leave you alone for the time being. But if he wants you back in the fold, well…’ she shrugs. ‘I do think he’s done with you, though.’

Steve pulls over to the side of the road. ‘I think you can leave now,’ he says, glaring at Romanoff in the rearview mirror.

‘I’ll be seeing you, boys,’ she purrs and steps out into the rain. The door whispers closed and she’s quickly invisible in the downpour.

We sit in silence for a while as the engine idles over. I reach up and realise my cheeks are dry; I’ve finally stopped crying.

‘Well, fuck,’ I say softly. 

Steve laces his fingers through mine, bringing them to his mouth and pressing them against his lips. Then he lets our hands fall back to the seat and we lapse into silence again, staring out the windshield at this dark summer sky, as the heavens empty themselves around us. 


End file.
